


On The Same Page

by TakeTheShot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clint doesn't feel the same, Happy Tower AU, I should also mention, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Canon Compliant, Phil is mad about Clint, Pining, Pining and angst, Set after Avengers, Silly Avengers team shenanigans, So I won't, Some Fluff, Use Your Words, because sure that's going to work out, but if i tell you what about that's spoilers, but they are fucking, crack elements, did i mention pining and angst?, does he?, everyone is friends and they all live together ok?, fight me on this, i know you're shocked by that, just know Phlint is endgame, let's all go back to 2012, phil and clint are not together, phlint - Freeform, so much pining, some porn, tagging this is harder than i thought it would be, tony is over excited and over enthusiastic, total lack of communication, we were safe there, well-meaning friends mean well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-02-08 18:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18628819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeTheShot/pseuds/TakeTheShot
Summary: Phil Coulson should have the perfect life. Loki didn't manage to kill him, despite trying pretty hard. He's official SHIELD liaison to The Avengers, which has to be one of the coolest jobs in the world even if it is often crazy. He's friends with gods, super-soldiers and geniuses, lives in a state-of-the-art tower run by a scarily clever AI and gets to have regular, hot, no-strings-attached sex with one of his best friends, Clint Barton. It should be perfect.So why isn’t it?Because you're not supposed to fall for your fuck-buddy and Phil very much has. Hard.Because Clint doesn’t feel the same way about him.Because he can’t do, he would have said something by now (wouldn’t he?)Because Phil needs to keep his feelings to himself or risk losing everything.And Because Tony has a new obsession that’s threatening to take over life at the Tower and while it’s ridiculous, for Phil it all feels a lot too…personal.Pining, angst, sex and fanboy shenanigans. Someone really needs to use their words.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this was meant to be a tiny little crack fic. The idea swam to the surface months ago during a late night conversation with a friend and it made us laugh, I thought I'd get it written down in a few thousand words and maybe make you guys laugh a bit too, and so I set out to do just that. Naturally it morphed into a multi-chapter angst fest over 20k with lashings of pining and a side order of emotional porn. Whoops.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> P.S. The other Avengers turn up soon and I know that the way I've written some of them gets a bit fandom favourite trope-y but hell, I wanted to have them that way when I was afraid how Endgame was gonna go and now I very much want them that way...join me in nostalgic wallowing? You know you want to.
> 
> xxx

>>===>>

“Fuck, Phil, jesus _christ…_ ”

Phil staggers a little and widens his stance to take more of his weight as Clint leans heavily into his shoulder, his hips working, rocking frantically through the loose, wet grip of Phil’s fist. Bracing against the counter behind them Phil smoothes his free hand down Clint’s spine, 

“Come on, shhh, I’ve got you, you’re alright…” 

Clint only moans lightly in answer and presses in harder, sliding against bare skin at the crook of Phil’s neck, lips still sticky-slick with traces of Phil, swallowed down just minutes before. Phil shudders, then pushes the feeling away and tightens his grip. His free hand clutches at Clint’s ass to pull him in harder as he works him, 

“Come on Barton, come on, give it up, give me what you’ve got…” 

Almost immediately the grip of Clint’s hands on his hips falters, starts to spasm and twitch in the way Phil knows they do when Clint’s _almost_ there, “that’s it, that’s right…” he twists his wrist to run his thumb firmly up the underside of Clint’s cock, smiling fiercely when Clint hisses, freezes tight as a wire and comes hard, spilling into Phil’s carefully cupped palm.

“ _fucking hell…_ ” Clint sighs, slumping heavily into Phil, panting quick and hot. Phil holds them both up despite the line of the counter pressing against his spine, waits for Clint’s breathing to level out. With his clean hand he rubs slow circles into Clint’s lax back, mentally counting the seconds until the inevitable.

Thirty-one… 

Thirty-two…

Thirty-three…

Thir… There it is. As if on cue Clint takes a deeper breath, his spine stiffening under Phil’s hand, and pulls back, cheeks still pink, already tucking himself back into his pyjama pants and grinning sheepishly. “Fuck, Phil, you almost took my legs out.”

“Well,” Phil forces himself to smile, to inject a bit of the smug Clint will expect, “that’s the peril of ambushing someone in their kitchen I suppose, lack of sexual supports. We’re just lucky the counters are solid.”

“Not surprising I guess.” Clint huffs, “Tony Stark’s Tower and all.” he scrunches up his face, sighs, “Right. I guess I should get back to mine, shower and stuff.”

Phil looks him deliberately and sarcastically up and down, eyeing his flushed face and crumpled shirt…he looks delicious but Phil wrinkles his nose as if mildly offended, “Probably a good idea Barton, yes.”

“Hey, fuck you Coulson,” Clint laughs, “I didn’t see you complaining. I’ll see you at the briefing downstairs, yeah?”

Phil doesn’t have to force the tut, “Of course you’ll see me at the briefing Barton. I’m the Avengers’ official SHIELD. liaison. I’ll be giving the briefing.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “’course you will. I’ll go get ready then. Wouldn’t want to be late for our official liaison.” 

Clint turns and then to Phil’s surprise, turns back and leans in towards him, smiling still. Glancing down, Phil sees Clint’s hand’s just slightly extended, heading for the small of his back or for… he blanches, puzzlement turning to sheer horror. Really? Clint’s going for a post-coital, friendly handshake? Aside from the fact that Phil’s hand is full of…well, full of Clint actually, that’s just…No. He can just about manage banter but that would be more than he could handle. He shies back, almost involuntarily, “Maybe not the best idea.”

Clint’s smile drops and he straightens up, “Sure. Okay then. I’ll see you there.”

“You will.” 

Phil watches silently until the door closes behind Clint then makes his way slowly to the bathroom, opens a faucet and rinses his hands until the flow of water turns uncomfortably hot. He keeps them in a few seconds longer, then shuts the stream off and wipes his face roughly,

“Well,” he sighs, finally meeting his own gaze in the mirror, “Alright then Phil. What the fuck happened to never again?” 

>>==>>>

Never again.

The stupid thing is, he’s been telling himself that maybe twice a week for almost six months. Six long, stupid months and every single time turns out to be a lie. He apparently just can’t leave Clint Barton alone, and the even stupider thing is that it’s taken nothing short of completely and totally falling for the man to even make Phil want to.

“Fuck.” he scrubs at his face again, takes a deep breath and stands straight, “Come on Coulson. It’s just another day in paradise. Nothing to it.” His reflection eyes him sceptically, he swears one more time and spins to angrily twist on the shower, yank off his pyjamas and get under the spray. Nope. He doesn’t believe him either.

As hot water pounds down on his back, Phil allows himself a few minutes to wallow in thoughts of Barton. Of Clint. Life had been infinitely easier when they’d just been fucking. Or when _he’d_ just been fucking anyway, because surely as far as Clint’s concerned that’s still all they’re doing. It isn’t Clint’s fault Phil’s feelings had gotten involved. They’ve never discussed that. In fact, they’ve never discussed any of it. 

It happened just over two years ago, the first shift in their relationship. He and Clint had worked together for a long time, trained together, run ops together and eventually, with the eventual addition of Natasha Romanov, formed Strike Team Delta together. And, not to boast, they had pretty much ruled the roost at S.H.I.E.L.D. together. Nobody and no-one had equalled their collective skills, their record of successful ops. And they’d been team-mates, friends, good friends, great friends even, the absolute _best_ on _and_ off duty. They trained, they fought, they hung out, the two and then three of them. And yep, they flirted, him and Clint anyway, teased each other, slept on each others’ couches or floors or even shoulders when pizza and vodka had been a little too free-flowing, but that was all, no funny business. Phil had been more than happy with that, fulfilled, ecstatic even. He’d had no inkling things were going to change, or that they even could.

But then, Morocco happened. 

It should have been nothing more than a simple infiltration nothing beyond their usual MO, but somehow it had gone south, gone south badly and _quickly_. Phil still has no idea if the operatives they’d been sent to meet had deliberately delivered bad information or if they’d just been particularly poor at gathering intelligence but by the end of the op there’d been no way of finding out, because they were dead. Doornails, all three of them. Delta had made it to extraction and the transport to the helicarrier but it had been a mad scramble that left none of them unscathed though Natasha had come off worst, taking two bullets to the shoulder. Their ride home had almost been silent. He and Clint had accompanied Natasha to medical of course but she’d sent them both away in pretty short order because, in her words, they were making the place look even more depressing than even medical usually did. Unable to argue with the truth of that Phil had headed back to his quarters and it had seemed more than natural for Clint to follow him. More than natural for him to come into Phil’s room, for him to slump back onto Phil’s bed and more than natural, when the pressure of lying there too wired and too tired to actually sleep just kept rising, for them to turn to each other.

Despite the heat in the steamed-up shower room Phil shivers at the memory. 

Neither of them had said anything, neither of them had exactly instigated it, but Clint had turned to him with eyes like black holes, like magnets, with a look that Phil absolutely knew had been mirrored on his own face and they’d just…reached for each other. 

That first touch had been the breaking of a dam Phil hadn’t even known was there and they’d let themselves drown in the resulting flood. Hand, lips, teeth, cocks, they’d tasted and tested, tried and tired almost every single inch of each other’s bodies in the most messy, uncoordinated, desperate and incredible sex of Phil’s life and when it was all over had fallen wordlessly wrapped together into a pit of satisfied oblivion. 

Phil scrubs shampoo roughly into his hair, lets the suds rolls down over his face and holds his breath as he rinses them away, staying under the water where it’s safe and dark and all he has to do is not inhale. Where things are simple. 

Perhaps that had been it. Perhaps that had been the moment when they could have, should have talked about it, about what it meant or even _if_ it meant. Phil himself wouldn’t have had an answer, it was all so out of the blue, but maybe they should have tried to fid one together… But sometime in the night the ‘all agents’ alarm had sounded while they’d still lain curled up together like a set of spoons in a drawer and they’d immediately leapt up, geared up and stepped up to the latest emergency without a second’s thought and by the time they’d seen each other again, three days, six rogue agents and one downed quinjet later, the moment had well and truly passed.

So they never had talked about it.

But that didn’t mean it had stopped happening.

Slowly, Phil soaps himself, running his hands over his chest, stomach, thighs, remembering the times Clint had come to him, or he’d gone to Clint or, fuck, they’d just gone to each other, always with that same look, that same silence, that same lack of explanation or discussion that wasn’t really a lack but just _was_. 

He traces the lines of his muscles, his limbs, his body, feeling all the places Clint has touched him, torched and twisted him with heat and feeling, leaving invisible but indelible traces. Feeling too the scars; the slice where he’d twisted into a knife meant for Clint, the thin whisper of a line marking the blood sacrificed to an arrow come close enough to take out the man holding him by the throat, the remains of the road rash on his calf that exactly matches that on Clint’s, both of them spilling off an ill-advised motorbike in pursuit of Natasha who hadn’t even needed either of them by the time they’d gotten there. 

They’re one and the same really, all Clint’s marks whether in bed or on op, all part of who they are, how they are together. And for a long time Phil thought that nothing at all had changed. He still had his best friend, his team-mates and missions partners and the fact that he was physical with one of them didn’t have to alter anything. Sure, it wasn’t exactly romance, they didn’t cuddle, kiss outside sex or sleep over much, there weren’t hearts and flowers, and it wasn’t a relationship but if he’d never asked for that then neither had Clint so why should Phil mess with a winning formula? They wanted the same thing and they had all the time in the world. Phil had been content knowing where they were without wondering too much about where they might be. They fought, they laughed and they occasionally fucked and none of it required discussion. Or at least it hadn’t.

Until the second shift, almost a year ago. Until Loki.

Loki. Fucking Loki. Phil tips his head back, fills his mouth and spits as if he can rinse the taste of the name away. He can’t. Finding the shower control he twists the water sharply off and drips his way to the bedroom to dress.

Loki. He thinks the name again with rancour while he works his way into his shirt and suit, layering armour over the rawness the morning has already left behind. 

Thor’s murdering bastard of a brother had stolen Clint and killed Phil and tried to ruin everything Phil had ever worked for all in the name of a cause that sprang from so far away and from such an insane ego that it had been almost impossible for Phil to comprehend. And to be honest, he hadn’t tried. Because in the end Loki’s batshit motivations hadn’t mattered, least of all to Phil. He’d gone to his death in the wild hope that he could retrieve Clint and help his team defeat Loki’s cause, and they _had_. They’d _won_. Impossibly, they’d won. Miracles apparently could be wrought in the face of overwhelming odds and Clint had come back and Loki had lost and Clint and Phil had both lived. By the skin of their teeth maybe, by dint of overwhelming luck and medical miracles but they’d _lived_. It had been quite the victory.

But then Clint and Natasha had had to go and join the newly-formed Avengers, necessitating leaving Phil in his hospital bed for months on end and, while the pain of taking Loki’s sceptre through his chest is still around even now, nagging at him on cold days and reminding him he still has a way to go in his already long and hard recovery, even at its height it had been nothing compared to the pain of thinking that he might have lost the very thing he’d fought for, that his own victories might all be in the past. So the day when Fury had suggested he take the newly created position of Avengers Liaison to S.H.I.E.L.D. had tasted so much like winning again that his head had spun, shouting a real ‘fuck-you’ to the universe that had tried to take him down. It had taken him all of two seconds to accept, ready to get back to his job, his team, his _place_.

Naturally the position had necessitated living in the newly renamed Avengers Tower and naturally Tony Stark had decided that Phil’s moving in necessitated a party. Phil had shared beer with gods and geniuses, accepted praise from Steve Rogers (of all people!), hugged Natasha as much as she would allow and accepted the hard prod to his belly and the admonishment that he needed to get back into training as the loving gesture that it was, and slipped into the beginning of this new life, this extension of his old one, so easily. 

And Clint had been there. Clint, still himself, still laughing, still at Phil’s side, still sassing left right and centre, still showing off fancy darts throws as soon as his fifth drink hit, even despite Loki’s shadow, still the same. It had been a triumphant night, proof that they’d looked the end in the face and walked away and Phil had finished it on a smug high, swollen proudly with the feeling that, despite everything, nothing had really changed. 

That feeling that had only grown when Clint had joined him in the elevator. 

Wordlessly they’d ridden up together until the doors opened onto Clint’s floor and Clint had paused. He hadn’t taken a single step, just turned and looked at Phil with those blue eyes gone dark, with that needy tension evident in every line of his body and Phil could see clearly it in Clint because it matched exactly what he could feel in himself. Heart jumping, singing even, he’d simply reached round and pressed the ‘close’ button and then the one for his floor, meeting Clint’s eyes and matching him grin for wolfish grin as the doors slid shut. Nothing had changed indeed.

They’d reached Phil’s new apartment and bounced off almost every surface it contained in their haste to get to a bedroom and get naked without lifting their hands or eyes from each other, consumed with a need that Phil could still feel, that he never stops feeling. Slamming into walls, pressing roughly over the back of the couch, knocking books loose from their shelves they’d been a frantic tangle of hands and limbs, teeth and tongues, all hot breath and desperation, panting nonsense,

“Phi…nngh..illllll”

“Yes, yes, fuuucck, Clint! yes….”

“Like that, like, like, like thaaa…!”

“Oh, I missed…”

“Me t….I missed…ohgodmore!... I _missed_ ….”

neither of them able to make the end of sentence because it simply took their mouths from the skin of the other for too long. Phil had eventually crashed Clint through the bedroom door and down onto the mattress, then prepped him and fucked him until they’d both screamed stars and made a glorious, life-affirming mess all over his brand new sheets. It had been, fabulously, amazingly, perfect and Phil had slid into euphoric and exhausted sleep filled to the brim with the rightness of it all.

In the silence of his bedroom Phil’s watch beeps a loud half-hour warning and Phil jumps, startled suddenly back into the present. Heart thumping, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror and scowls. Mouth drifted open, tie half tied, eyes gone misty he looks the picture of a daydreaming idiot, lost in memories instead of facing reality. Giving himself a firm mental shake he yanks his tie up, promptly pulling the damn thing too tight and half strangling himself. “Oh for fuck’s sake!” he wrestles with the damn knot, cursing, and wonders why he apparently feels the constant need to torture himself.

Because about an hour after Phil had hit that highest of highs he’d found out how far that gave him to fall. Maybe an hour after dozing off he’d half woken from a dream of gentle fingers sliding through his hair, a soft kiss to his cheek, some whispered words of endearment, and reached out to Clint’s side of the mattress. Which had been empty. 

In itself, that wouldn’t have been unusual because it wasn’t their habit to sleep over, that was a boyfriend thing and they’d certainly never defined themselves as that, but what had been unusual was Phil’s reaction. Because, reaching out and touching that still warm but empty space, suddenly the thing Phil had wanted most in the world was for it to be filled. For Clint to be there. Not for a repeat of the sex even, but just because he wanted him to _be there_. Wanted to hold him, wanted to cuddle him close, kiss him and tell him how frightened he’d been for him, how much he had missed him. Because, Phil had all at once realised, if he’d been able to finish the sentence, that’s what he would have said. Not, as he might have thought, “I missed _this_ ,” meaning the sex itself, but “I missed _you_.” Because that was the truth of it. He’d missed not the sex, not the passion, the silent thrill of it, but Clint. He’d missed Clint. Funny, gorgeous, smart, deadly, loyal, Clint Barton. Because he loved him. More than that, was in love with him.

It had hit like some kind of epiphany, a totally fucking obvious bolt from the blue, another spear through the chest almost, and sent him reeling. And as composed as he tries to appear now, finally straightening his tie and shrugging on his jacket, Phil knows that he is still reeling. And still madly, completely in love with Clint. The way he knows now he really always had been. And that was what Loki had really managed to change. Everything and yet, still nothing. 

He’d denied it at first of course. Tried to write it off as the product of the fear, of being away in recovery for so long but that had only lasted as far as Clint’s smile at breakfast the next day. The moment his sunny blue eyes had met Phil’s red-rimmed sleepless ones had sent all Phil’s justifications tumbling into the abyss. He’d somehow had faked normality, made conversation while his heart pounded, blamed the swooping of his stomach on the alcohol from the night before and clenched his hands into fists to keep from leaning and pressing a kiss behind Clint’s ear when he turned to pour Phil a cup of coffee, ignored the electric thrill that rushed through him when their fingers brushed as Clint passed him the mug. Which had been ridiculous! The touch of Clint’s fingers on his, considering exactly where those fingers had been the night before, should not have had any affect on him at all but somehow with his new perspective he’d found himself fighting down the blush. Yes, he’d realised, he was a hopeless gonner.

Phil rips himself away from the memories, hurriedly chugs his present mug of coffee, bolts a round of toast and heads for the door. Two steps and then he pauses, turns, reaches into the nearest cupboard and hurriedly shoves a couple of protein bars into his jacket pocket before stomping away. 

For god’s sake, he’s almost late for his own briefing. Too much wallowing. It does nobody any good. No amount of romantic reminiscing is ever going to change the essential facts that he and Clint are, for lack of a less crude definition and given that they’d never put any other name to it, only _fuck buddies_. Just friends with benefits. And even if Phil now wants to be something else he’s not going to let it show, can’t let it show, can’t let Clint know. 

Because in all this time Phil’s never had any indication that Clint feels anything like the same way. Ever. Has he? And no matter how many times he’s told himself over the last six months, over countless missions and trainings and team movie-nights that today is definitely going to be the day when he actually admits to his feelings and _asks_ , no matter how many times he tells himself that today will be the day when he won’t answer Clint’s dark look, won’t open the door, won’t make his way to Clint’s floor, won’t knock, every single time it turns out to be yet another lie. 

And Phil’s not an idiot. He knows exactly why that is. Because….because what if he asks and the answer is no? What if Clint smiles that gentle smile, surprised and a bit embarrassed and tells Phil that no, of course that’s not what he’s looking for. That’d he’d have said so before if he had been, wouldn’t he? Obviously? What if Clint looks at him with embarrassment that Phil could get the situation so wrong, what if it gets awkward and Clint starts to avoid him because he can’t give what Phil wants, what if Phil’s feelings ruin their working relationship? Their friendship? 

What if this….arrangement, miserable as it has the potential make him, is as good as Phil’s going to get? He wants Clint, he does, but what if this is the only way he can have him? If that’s the truth, he’s not sure he could bear to find it out, because he knows deep down that it's not enough. So he can't face his feelings. He has to keep them in. He can’t risk it.

Phil’s never considered himself a coward but right now he wonders angrily if the description might not just be a perfect fit.

The high-pitched bleeping of his watch cuts through his thoughts, reminding him that if he is a coward he is a coward who has a job to do and a briefing to give. And that, at least, he knows how to do. So. Phil straightens his tie, his spine and his willpower, grabs his tablet and heads downstairs, brave face on, armour in place. Once more unto the breach. Deep breath. Here he goes.

>>===>>


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments on the first chapter, hope you enjoy this one!
> 
> This has become part one of what should have been one chapter and has had to be split into two due to length, hope that prolonging the agony isn't too annoying. This is where the crack really kicks in, but I have my reasons, trust me.
> 
> Enjoy x

>>===>>

Not one. There is not a single person in the briefing room. Phil sighs. As much as he enjoys working with The Avengers and as much as they are a very efficient and effective team in the field, sometimes his job is very much like herding cats.

“JARVIS,” he wearily addresses the Tower’s resident AI, sometimes the only voice of sanity in the place, “where are they?”

JARVIS replies instantly, “All Avengers are currently assembled in the communal lounge Agent Coulson. I believe they are watching television. Should I page them for you?”

“No, thank you JARVIS.” Phil knows from experience that it’ll be faster to fetch them himself because if he doesn’t Thor will wander off to get Pop Tarts, Tony will get himself and Bruce distracted by some project, Natasha will go wherever Natasha goes and basically only Steve and Clint will ever show up for briefing, “At least they’re all in the same place for once. Cue up the briefing on screen please, I’ll bring the team up soon.” he pauses, “I hope.”

When the elevator doors open on the lounge the Avengers are indeed all grouped around the huge televisions screen, but nothing is playing. Instead there’s a conversation was apparently already in full swing. Phil’s gratified to hear Steve Rogers ask, 

“Shouldn’t we be heading up to briefing Tony? Whatever this is, we’re late and Agent Coulson is probably already waiting for us.” but he gets quickly shot down by a Tony Stark who seems even more hyperactive than Phil would usually expect, especially for a morning,

“Chill Capsicle, I guarantee that he’ll be just as interested in this as the rest of you.”

“Perhaps we would be interested Tony,” this interruption rumbles in Bruce Banner’s low tones, “if you’d just tell us what it is.”

“I will! As soon as we’re all here!”

Phil coughs to announce his presence and all heads turn in his direction, “We’re all here Stark. What exactly is it that’s important enough to delay my briefing?”

“Agent Agent!” Tony actually claps his hands and grins gleefully, obviously pleased with his secret whatever-it-is, “Take a seat!”

The only spare seat is the free half of the sofa already occupied by Clint, because of course it is. Phil drops down on to it and props himself against the armrest with a muttered, “good morning” hoping fervently that he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. It’s ridiculous. He’s walked into a fire-fight after a frantic handjob with Clint’s come staining his trousers without batting an eyelid and yet here he is now, perfectly presentable and frantically trying not to blush. These squishy new feelings that come with realising his true state of mind seem to have made everything just that bit more… mortifying. Closer to the surface.

Perhaps it’s all the hiding he has to do now. Keeping things from the world was easy enough when it was both of their secret, but keeping this from Clint? Not easy at all. 

There’s a second cup of coffee already waiting on the table at Clint’s elbow and Clint passes it to Phil with a wordless smile. Jesus, but he looks good. How does he go from looking thoroughly debauched to so adorably put together in half an hour? Phil takes a sip to drown the blush that wants to bloom again, tastes sugar and just a dash of cream, strong but sweet, exactly how he likes it on a work morning. Coffees on his rare days off are fancier affairs, with froth and flavourings and trust Clint to remember. And trust Phil’s damn heart to flood him with warmth at such a simple, friendly gesture. The idiotic thing. Its nothing Clint hasn’t done a million times and he can’t afford to imagine it as anything more. So, he won’t. He nods his thanks at Clint who ducks his head and waves it off, and turns back to Tony who offers a much safer view.

“Alright Stark, we’re half an hour behind schedule already. This had better be good.”

Tony feigns indignance, clutching his chest dramatically, “It is, trust me! Gentlemen, and lady,” he nods regally at Natasha, “I give you…. _The Castigators!_ Hit it JARVIS.”

Tony waves at the screen and a lurid animation begins to play, a couple of seconds of some sort of opening montage sequence set to absurdly poppy music and featuring a myriad of characters in ludicrous costumes leaping in and out of frame with a frightening amount of special effects.

“A cartoon?” Steve asks doubtfully, “Really, Tony?”

Tony grins again, sly and smug. “Not just any cartoon Cap, give it a minute…”

The montage quickly explodes into a title page and then an action sequence. Phil watches, but doesn’t get any real clue as to why Stark has subjected them to it. He manages almost twenty seconds and is just about call a halt when Clint shoots forward in his seat, rocking the sofa,

“Holy shit! That’s us!”

Phil hisses when coffee sloshes over his fingers. “It’s what?”

“It’s us! The cartoon is us!”

“Ding ding ding!” Tony crows, “ten points for Legolas! It’s not just a cartoon, it’s _our_ cartoon. This little Mom and Pop animation outfit…”

“Those exist?” Bruce asked.

“They do in _Europe_ ,” Tony glares pointedly, “and this one released _this_ thing of beauty maybe five months ago. It was underground mostly for the first season but the second came out pretty quickly, one of the streaming networks picked it up and JARVIS flagged it for me. Isn’t it awesome?”

Lounging back in the biggest chair, arms folded and feet up on the coffee table, Thor frowns. “I do not understand. What does Clint mean when he says ‘it’s us’?”

“Oh, come on…does nobody have any vision?” Tony sighs hugely, waves at Clint. “Go on then, you explain it.”

Clint grins himself. “It’s us. It’s literally us. See those things they’re fighting?” he points at the screen where the characters are wrestling and firing at some orange, blobby, vaguely reptilian creatures, “Well, if you add another set of wings, make them green, remind anyone of anything?”

He looks expectantly over at Phil, who has to shake his head. “Not me.”

It’s Natasha who spots it first, “The ‘dragons’,” she says calmly, blowing steam away from her morning tea, “in Central Park. Last March.”

“Exactly!” Clint smiles at her, “Yeah, you were still…” he falters, settles on, “…away Phil. But yeah, the dragons! I’m gonna bet that this whole series is based on the stupid things we keep having to save the world from. Right, Tony?”

“Absolutely.” Tony agrees, “All our ‘adventures’ captured in glorious technicolour animation and changed just enough to avoid infringing copyright and risking the attentions of Stark Industries lawyers. We’re famous!”

Bruce grimaces. “I’m pretty sure we were already famous Tony. More famous than I ever wanted to be anyway.”

“But not _cartoon_ famous Brucie Bear!” he slumps a little, “I can’t believe you guys don’t think this is cool…”

“Stark,” Phil interrupts, because it might be cool, but is also worrying, “if this is based on actual Avengers’ missions, should we be worried about security risks? Leaks?”

Tony waves the question away. “Nah. I had JARVIS analyse the recordings. Nothing in there that couldn’t have been found on the regular news or social media. But that, to be honest, is a boring question Agent. You’re missing the best part!” 

“You really are Phil” Beside him, Clint snorts into the remains of his coffee, grinning slyly, “JARVIS, there’s another more before the bit Tony showed us, right?” Jarvis agrees and he grins again, “Send it right back to the beginning then.”

“Certainly, Agent Barton.” JARVIS’ disembodied voice floats down from the ceiling and the recording rewinds, going further back than the sequence that first played. What’s’ showing now are introductory credits, less action-montage and more character portrait and the first few images are of a stocky, black-haired woman posing in a suit of what looks like armour, silver and red, carrying some sort of light rod. There’s something very familiar about the sardonic twist to her mouth and Phil almost has it when Steve beats him to it.

“Tony, is that….you?”

“Noooo,” Tony pauses the playback, practically bouncing with badly concealed glee, “ _this_ is ‘Femme Ferrous’, the brave and noble leader of the _Castigators_. She invented her own armour, she fights like a badass and, most importantly,” he paused, gesturing widely at the screen “how _awesome_ am I as a girl! Do you see me rocking the curves in that suit? Look at my ass!”

Phil looks from the dramatically posing woman on the screen to the equally dramatic Tony. Both of them are holding their arms wide in exuberant challenge. Tony is always a showman, and Phil can’t help the corners of his mouth curving slightly as he shakes his head in mild disbelief, “Yes, I see the resemblance… there’s more?”

“Of course. Start her up again JARVIS.” 

On the screen Femme Ferrous strikes a few more poses and then turns and hurls the rod towards the screen. It expands as it flies, becoming a glowing disc that momentarily obscures the lens. Across the room Steve sits even more upright. 

“They gave you my shield?” he sounds personally wounded.

“Chaaanged enough to avoid cooopyriiiight,” Tony sing-songs, the picture of pleased with himself, “And possibly libel suits. Anyway, it evens out, you’ll see. You’re next.”

The shield fades away to reveal a huge, well-muscled man in a tight (very tight) red tacsuit, his hands and arms ringed with the sizzle of what looks like electricity. “World’s deadliest man,” Tony supplies a voiceover, “he was in the Army, agreed to risk his life testing experimental weapons which would be a ludicrous backstory, except…” he looks pointedly at Steve, who actually blushes, “ apparently the weapons somehow became fused to his body, gave him strength and the power to fire bolts of energy from his hands. He’s the muscle of the outfit, fighting for truth, freedom and justice for all. Lady and gentlemen, I give you… _Major Union_!”

Clint snorts again, violently. “No way. Really?” Tony nods and Clint laughs even as he wipes coffee off his brow, “That sounds like orgy night at the sex club!”

“Clint.” Phil reprimands him gently, trying his best not to imagine Clint at a sex club. In leather…oh shit…

“But it does!” Clint insists, “I mean not that I go to sex clubs,” he turns to Phil, “or orgies, I mean, they’re fine if you’re into that, but I don’t, you know… I mean…” he trails off, “it just sounds pretty kinky.”

Clint’s suddenly almost as flushed as Steve and Phil feels compelled to rescue him, if only to separate the words ‘Clint’ and ‘orgy’ in his head, so he looks to Tony who was eyeing them both speculatively. “I’ll hazard a guess that the rest of the team appears as well, Stark?”

Tony winks. “Naturally. Hang on to your hats guys….”

The other characters flash past, the images accompanied by helpful narration from Tony.

‘Doctor Green’, a seemingly ordinary man able to transform into a much larger version of himself and whose brainpower only increases with his size until he reaches genius levels, has Bruce sighing wistfully at the screen, especially when the Doctor is shown working in an oversized lab, deftly handling delicate test-tubes with Hulk-sized fingers. 

(“It took me a while to control it in the early days. You have no idea how much equipment I lost when the other guy showed up suddenly,” Bruce says, shaking his head sadly, “so much glass.”)

Natasha nods her approval of ‘Redback’, a deadly blonde assassin of ‘mysterious origin’, who apparently can kill a man with no more than a look, a backflip and a fingernail, 

(“They hardly changed anything about Natasha!” Steve protests. 

“That’s because nobody knows enough about me to know what needs changing,” she smirks, “and that’s just the way I like it.”

“It’s because you’re too terrifying for any writer to dare to mess with more like.” Clint adds, making her smirk all the wider,

“And that’s just the way I like it too.”)

while Thor roars with laughter to find that he’s been wholly replaced by another figure from Norse mythology, his fellow Asgardian Lady Sif. He very loudly proclaims that she would approve whole-heartedly and that the team ‘would be all the better for more females’. Phil can’t argue with that, even if the Lady Sif on screen bears only a passing physical resemblance to the genuine article he’d encountered in New Mexico. He makes a mental note to send the team in charge of keeping those images off the internet a substantial fruit basket.

Clint has to be next, which he clearly knows, given the way his knee starts to bounce nervously. Phil wants to reach out and stop it with a reassuring hand, because what could they possibly do to Clint? He’s not something anyone could spoil. But he resists, instead answering Clint’s grin with a small smile of his own as projectiles expert ‘DeadCentre’ somersaults onto the screen, flinging handfuls of knives, darts and throwing stars into various targets without looking at any of them. 

“Still the World’s Best Marksman.” Clint proclaims proudly.

“Wouldn’t have expected anything less.” Phil nods, then teases, “Interesting outfit though. Slightly more circus than secret agent.”

Clint sit up, straight and superior, “Can’t blame them for picking up on my awesome personal history Phil. And besides,” Clint plucks at his bicep-flattering shirt, the same shade as the suit of the character, (another trend Phil assumes the creators picked up from social media photos where it’s not exactly hard to see Clint’s preferences) “I look fabulous in purple.”

‘You absolutely do’ Phil replies instantly, though he says it only in his head because saying it out loud is something he really can’t risk in this company, it would come out too true. To control his tongue he turns back to Tony, “Alright, this is fine but since that’s everyone could we please get on with what we’re supposed…”

“A moment, Son of Coul,” Thor interrupts, “it seems we have one more player on the stage.”

Indeed, a final character has appeared. Another man, he’s dressed all in a tight black suit and Phil assumes he has some sort of magical powers which, given that he moves instantly from place to place and is never spotted by the bad guys chasing him, apparently include teleportation and invisibility. Phil frowns. “Who is that supposed to be?”

Across the room Natasha barks a laugh which she half disguises by blowing on her tea again. “It’s you Phil.”

“Me?” Phil startles

“Technically,” Tony helpfully supplies, “it’s ‘Non-Descript’, the tactical brains of the team, the one who calls all the plays, knows all the info and has the ability to apparently get into anywhere at any time. He also has a talent for not being noticed and letting the bad guys underestimate him before he kicks their asses. He turned up a bit late in season one, just a couple of weeks after you got out of hospital. You may draw your own conclusions, Agent.”

Phil can see a resemblance at a stretch, but he doesn’t understand it, “But why would the writers put me in a series based on the team?”

“Because you’re important!” Clint blurts suddenly from beside him, “You’re important to the team, because we run better now you’re here, because you spot things and get us to where we need to be, because this whole ‘saving the world’ thing would be a lot harder without you, because you’re just as important as anyone even if you don’t have to wear a stupid costume and go talk to the press like the rest of us do. I think it’s good that whoever writes this spotted that you’re around and they clearly gave you the powers that match your badass skills because they can see how….” Clint trails off, apparently becoming aware that the rest of the team is staring at him. 

“Clint,” Natasha says, head cocked thoughtfully, “do you see how nobody is arguing with you?”

Clint flushes, “I respect everyone’s role in the team, that’s all.” he finishes, mumbling defiantly.

“Annnywayyyy,” Tony drawls after a pause, eyebrow raised, “Now that Katniss over here has made his statement for Agent’s rights, what does everyone else think? This is pretty awesome, right? Phil? Come on, you’re a total superhero nerd, we all know it, we saw your Cap collection. Admit it, this is cool.”

Phil blinks. He’s a little lost for words after Clint’s little speech. Because where on Earth had that come from? There was respect for the role and then there was…well, there was…what? Thankfully his watch beeps yet again and reminds him that they do actually have work to do.

“It is cool,” he agrees, meaning it, because _of course_ his inner nerd is squealing with excitement despite the fact that it is always a little embarrassing to be reminded of his obsession with superheroes when the man who had originally inspired it is sitting _right over there_ , “but do we need to get to work at some point today. SHIELD is expecting us armed and set for transport within the next two hours and I refuse to explain to Deputy Director Hill that you aren’t mission ready because I let you watch cartoons. Perhaps we can see more of it later?”

“Yes!” Tony exclaims, “Team movie night! Excellent! I’ll supply popcorn and snacks and we can just binge-watch a whole season. Tonight good for everyone?”

The team assents, some more loudly than others. “I’m not sure that’s quite what I…” Phil decides acquiescing is easier than arguing. “Fine. Movie night. But briefing now please.” 

When everyone is at last assembled in the briefing room, Phil keys on his presentation, “Alright, let’s concentrate. We’re already behind so I hope you’ve all already eaten.”

Still heading for his seat Clint winces, whispers, “Aw, breakfast, no.”

Automatically Phil’s hand goes to his jacket pocket and the protein bars he stashed there earlier. Because of course this is why he’d put them there even if he hadn’t consciously though about it at the time. Inwardly he winces, because feeding Clint, while he’s done it a million times before, is a little near the knuckle right now. It’s too much of a reminder of all the ways Phil would like to take care of him, all the ways he wishes he was allowed to love him. Outwardly, he shoots Clint a little mock-scowl and tosses the bars over. Clint catches them with a pleased noise and without breaking stride towards his chair and Phil turns back to the screen, pretending not to have seen his grin of thanks, pretending that its diamond brilliance hadn’t put a flood of warmth in his belly. Work is a great distraction and thankfully JARVIS has his briefing loaded. He faces his team. Okay then. “This is everything we know so far…..”

>>===>>

As it turns out, movie night does not happen that night or even the next, missions, cybernetically-enhanced crime rings and sewer-tunnel chases being what they are, so by the time they all make it back to the Tower and get decontaminated Phil finds that he’s actually quite looking forward to it. It’ll be nice to have something that will allow him to turn his brain off for a bit and heaven knows the team have earned some down-time. 

And it all starts well. Tony’s supplied a literal feast of snacks to challenge even the appetites of Steve and Thor, the beer is cold and it’s good to see everyone relaxing after a few hard days. The team doesn’t do this that much, sit down all together at once. They’re friends, sure, but they are also after all grown, independent adults and not the Brady bunch, which means that fully communal activity, outside ‘assembling’ isn’t an overly frequent thing. So it’s especially nice for Phil for once to have all his charges in the same basket, all safe where he can see them. He feels himself breathe just that tiny bit easier.

The chairs in the lounge are huge and luxurious and of course, by the time Phil enters the only space left is on the loveseat next to Clint, as per usual. Phil almost believes that the universe is doing this to him on purpose. He’s shared a thousand different chairs, sofas and floors with Clint before of course, but today Clint’s dressed in a soft-looking, fuzzy purple sweater and that, plus the worn look in his eyes, just makes Phil long to sling an arm round him, settle him into his lap and stroke his hair and he aches physically that he’s not allowed to. He’s just wondering if he could persuade Natasha to uncurl from where she’s sitting in an armchair absorbed in something on her tablet and trade with him when Tony dims the lights and calls showtime.

Phil has to admit it, he gets a little thrill to see ‘his team’ appear on screen. He can’t help it, it makes his inner geek way too happy. And while the music is hoplessly cheesy and some of the ‘evil villains’ who appear in the first episode to plot the Castigators’ downfall are straight out of the last century (the melodramatic interpretation of Loki has Thor howling with laugher, so much so that JARVIS has to pause for a while until they can actually hear the playback again) the animation’s actually fairly slickly done, the dialogue’s snappy and the characters are enough of a mix of the actual team and original elements to imply that things won’t be too predictable, even for this rather privileged audience. Within a few minutes Phil’s filling a plate, snagging a beer and happily settling in for the long haul. He expects to enjoy himself immensely.

It quickly becomes apparent that that isn’t going to be the case.

Something about the show sets Phil on edge. It takes him a couple of episodes to realise it and he really can’t put his finger on why but he’s actually uncomfortable. He shifts in his seat, making Clint glance round at him, the enquiry plain in his little raised-eyebrow nod. Phil waves reassurance and tries to settle. He eats a handful of popped cheese, a treat he got a taste for on assignment in Germany once, one that he doesn’t allow himself to indulge in often, despite the fact that Tony’s kept a cupboard full of the stuff since he got wind of Phil’s addiction. Usually its presence would have him digging in until his fingers are greasy and stained yellow but today just a few pieces sit like a rock in his gut so he passes it over to Clint, who looks delighted. The beer similarly makes his stomach roll, so he abandons that too. 

_Castigators_ episodes are apparently only fifteen minutes long so they just keep rolling round; the plotlines well-paced, the set-pieces fun and full of easter-eggs of his actual life, the purple marksman DeadCentre gets in some excellent one-liners and his own character, NonDescript, makes great display of badassery when he appears three or four episodes in. He’s pretty cool actually, a stoic and silent type but with skills, so it isn’t even like the show is making fun of Phil or anything. So why does he feel so uneasy? The whole show is very much right up his street and it should be something he enjoys, it’s something he _wants_ to enjoy but the sensation of feeling…wrong just gets more and more intense. Before they’re even halfway through the season Phil’s skin’s prickling like he has a million eyes on him, even though the rest of the team are all watching the screen. He’s sweating. He feels a little sick and flushed and inexplicably embarrassed but he doesn’t know _why_.

Phil makes it as far as the end of episode ten or so but that’s about as much as he can take. Clint has already turned to check on him a couple more times, Natasha has given him the questioning eyebrow over the top of her tablet and whatever has him so unsettled isn’t going away. He’s had enough. Nobody’s looking at him now, he’ll just slip out. He stands. Instantly Clint’s looking at him again.

“You ok Phil?” he says with concern and all heads turn in their direction. Great. So much for making a sneaky exit.

“Fine,” Phil nods, “but that’s enough for me. I’m going to turn in.”

“Already?” That’s Tony, from the depths of the leather recliner he’s hogging, “You can’t go already!”

“Tony…” Steve reprimands him softly, “Phil can go to bed whenever he likes.”

“But we haven’t seen the season finale yet! Femme Ferrous is about to save the team from the clutches of Madame Cephalopod! Come on Agent Agent, where’s your stamina?”

Phil wants the team to stop looking at him because it is not helping the way his skin feels too tight and prickly, “My stamina is exactly where it belongs thank you, Stark.” he snaps, much sharper than he intended, “I’ve just had enough for tonight, that’s all.”

“Fine.” Tony pouts, “but don’t blame us when you miss out on the evil tentacle action.” 

Phil’s not running, but he is almost to the elevator already. “I promise Stark. I’ll survive.” 

When the doors close the last thing he sees is Clint's puzzled frown. 

He’s not running.

>>===>>


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thank you so much for all the love you gave my Avengers alternative cartoon, your comments were awesome, I'm so glad you liked them. I have to admit to being far too fond of 'The Castigators' now, I'd watch their show too :)
> 
> It would be great to hear thoughts on this one too, you know I shamelessly adore your comments!
> 
> Enjoy x

>>===>>

Back in his own rooms Phil tries to relax and fails. It’s almost impossible, mainly because he doesn’t understand why he’s so shaken in the first place, what has him so on-edge. It’s ridiculous, it was _team movie-night_ not a mission and yet his nerves are still jangling like he’s been under fire. And because he doesn’t _know_ what the problem is, he can’t _solve_ it. It tangles his brain, makes his teeth itch.

So for lack of a better option he goes down his list of tried and tested techniques, favoured after-op strategies for calming his mind. He plays some quiet music, has a hot drink with a stiff whiskey, clears his thoughts by writing a to-do list for tomorrow, all the usual. In frustration he finally puts on his softest pyjamas and makes himself comfortable in bed to read a few chapters of a decent book. William Goldman’s _Princess Bride_ is always a favourite, he enjoys the cleverly written fourth-wall manipulation and audience address and by now he knows the text well enough that he doesn’t actually have to concentrate. Eventually, the fairytale does its work. Gradually his mind slows and shoulders start to relax, whatever it was that had him so wound up apparently wearing off to his heartfelt relief. In fact, he’s just debating whether to leave Wesley and Buttercup in the Fire Swamp and finally turn off the lights or follow them as they battle lightning-sand and ROUS’s when his door alert sounds and whoops, there goes his heart-rate, pounding through the roof again.

Because it’s Clint.

It has to be.

JARVIS hasn’t alert Phil to an elevator as he usually would when it's this late, which means whoever it is has arrived on his floor in a less conventional way. Which, unless they’ve scaled the windows or stolen an Iron Man suit, can only mean the vents. Which can only mean Clint. 

A quick glance at the bedroom’s security screen tells Phil he’s right and he suppresses a shiver when Clint lifts his head like he can feel Phil’s eyes on him, looks straight at the ‘hidden’ camera and winks.

Phil’s fingers hover over the button that will buzz Clint in. 

He doesn’t have to. He can simply ignore the chime and Clint will go home to his own floor, no harm done, no questions asked. He can do that. Probably should do that to be perfectly honest, should avoid tangling even further into this mare’s-nest of feelings he’s already snared in. Or…he can let Clint in and actually have that talk he’s so terrified of having. He can do that. 

Can he?

Can he do that? 

He can’t.

Can he?

The soft snick of the door opening signals that all at once it’s too late for thinking, that apparently Phil’s body and his fingers have made the decision for him. He stares at them where they're pressed firmly on the button, swallows, and wonders briefly if this is what madness tastes like. He can hear Clint’s footsteps padding through his apartment, following the light towards his bedroom, and he dredges his brain for an opening sentence that doesn’t sound…stupid? needy? juvenile? panicky? emotional? He comes up frighteningly blank and he’s maybe starting to panic the tiniest bit when the door swings open and Phil forgets everything he wants and doesn't want to say. All at once it’s clear that talking is no longer the issue. 

Because Clint’s half naked.

That sweater Phil was fantasising about cuddling earlier must be lying somewhere on his apartment floor, have been stripped off between the two doors because now Clint’s down to just his jeans, broad chest bared, all golden curves and shadows in the glow of Phil’s bedside lamp and god, he’s so bloody gorgeous as he walks towards to bed that Phil feels himself seize up, stopped by the sheer wonder of him. _Jesus_. Phil wants to run his hands over every inch of skin, lick his way round the line of every muscle, throw himself at Clint’s feet. His mouth goes dry, the flavour of lunacy thick on his tongue. Clint, being Clint, notices Phil’s stillness and stops himself, looks up, hands freezing where they’d been working at the fly of his jeans. He meets Phil’s eyes, the slightest flush painting his cheeks.

“Yes?” he asks.

There are other, more sensible answers Phil could give, but he’s too far gone already, he was the second that door alert rang, he always is. And the look on Clint’s face, _fuck_. It’s dark, hungry. He _wants_ Phil and Phil wants to be wanted, wants to pretend it’s the same for Clint as it is for him, wants to fool himself just one more time. Of course, he can’t deny he also just… _wants_. Clint is beautiful. Under his stare the warm desire just beginning to pool at the base of Phil’s spine starts to spread, his cock throbs, fills, it seems Phil’s body’s taking over again and he decides to let it. Which leaves him with just the one word really. The same word as always.

“Yes.” he says and Clint breathes out hard.

“Good.”

Instantly Clint’s hands are moving again, popping all his fly buttons and peeling open his jeans even as he takes the last strides to the bed and god, oh god, he’s got nothing underneath. Phil barely starts to process that he’s spent the evening watching _cartoons_ and sitting next to a Clint who was going _commando_ before he’s confronted with a naked Clint, which is something else entirely. Somehow he’s managed to get his jeans down and off as he walks, all grace even in this, and Phil has to swallow a hungry moan because Clint’s already hard, hard and leaking, cock straining high away from those gorgeous tight abs. He slides back across the mattress, lifts the sheets and Clint falls into the space with a moan of his own, clambering into Phil’s lap and settling square across Phil’s thighs with a sinful little squirm that presses them firmly together.

“Fuck!” Phil just has time to wrap his arms around the sudden hot lapful of archer, gripping Clint’s waist and digging his fingers in before Clint’s mouth hits his in a harsh kiss. There’s little finesse to it, Clint just claims Phil’s lips and pushes his tongue roughly into his mouth like it’s a fight, a fire, like they’re running out of time. Phil’s happily forced to respond in kind, it’s that or be consumed. His hands grip harder at Clint’s waist, hard enough to leave dents, maybe even bruises, and he slides his tongue against Clint’s own, twisting, pushing and demanding entry to Clint’s mouth, licking along his lips, behind his teeth. Clint groans deep in his chest and plays dirty, rocking his hips so that his cock slides against Phil’s, grinding down against the soft jersey of Phil’s pyjamas and the hard length underneath, rolling wave after wave of hot sparks through him, all the while sucking rhythmically on Phil’s tongue. Phil’s moaning, he knows he’s moaning but Clint doesn’t let up, doesn’t let him away, swallows all his noises and just keeps moving in that damn aching rhythm until Phil’s about two seconds from either passing out or coming in his sleep shorts, he doesn’t have much control over which. Thankfully, Clint does and he backs away as suddenly as he’d attacked, pulling at the hem of Phil’s t-shirt, dragging it upwards. Phil heaves in a shuddering breath, then sits forward so Clint can rip it up and off, apparently no time to spare. Clint’s on him the second his skin’s exposed and Phil’s back almost breaks in half bowing to push up into Clint’s mouth when he leans down to drop kisses around the angry scrawl marking where Loki’s spear exited Phil’s chest. The scar doesn’t exactly _hurt_ anymore but it’s sensitive in weird new ways and Clint’s lips feel like ice then fire all at once. Phil gasps like a landed fish and sees Clint smirk, just quickly, and then his mouth is gone, burrowing into Phil’s throat. Clint presses firm kisses up the column of his neck and behind his ear before dipping back to his collar-bone where he sucks a hard kiss that will surely stain, a pink-red imprint Phil will have to hide under his shirt collar. It’s good, so, so good. And….different. It’s usually like this, this heady, hurried grab and gasp, they’re good to each other but not necessarily gentle and even if Phil would sometimes want otherwise he’s used to that, satisfied, but tonight Clint is something else even beyond that, something hungry, sucking as if he could pull Phil’s soul out through his skin and swallow it whole. Phil gasps again, grips his hands and bucks his hips upwards hard, feels Clint’s groan vibrate through his bones.

“Fuck!” he says, and it comes out breathy and strained “What’s got you so riled up?”

Clint lifts his head just enough to reply and his words tickle across Phil’s bruised skin, “Does it matter?”

“Not...ahhh…no I suppose…nngh…not.” Phil pants as Clint works back up to his ear again, “I just didn’t realise cartoons did it for you…”

It’s a silly little joke and he’s not even sure why he makes it, but Clint jerks, breaks away from the kissing to look Phil in the face. For a the tiniest fraction of a second his eyes are wide, shocked, scared even, a look so open and vulnerable and terrifying that Phil can’t help but reach up to stroke his face. He tries, “I mean, I know girl-Tony was hot, but…” the joke trails off weakly as his fingers graze Clint’s cheek, not sure what he’s seeing. Clint leans into the touch just minutely and then that look is gone and his mouth turns up into a hot smirk again.

“Very funny.” he says, then turns quick as a snake and bites into the flesh of Phil’s palm, worrying it gently with his teeth until Phil’s head falls back, “but _Tony_? Really? I’m going have to find a way to stop you making such bad jokes...” as he talks he winds his tongue round Phil’s fingers, sinfully pink and teasing, and Phil’s ready to do almost anything, anything at all. “Do you think you can be quiet and open your mouth for me?”

He absolutely can.

In the end he leans back against the headboard as Clint stands above him, hands braced against the wall, and fucks into his mouth. The hot slide of Clint’s thick cock through his lips, the press against the back of his throat, the heat and smell of Clint surrounding him so close is all an aching contrast to the emptiness in his lap where his own dick juts forlornly into the air, dampening his pants with every rock of Clint’s hips and begging to be touched. He could reach down, stroke himself, but when he moves to do it Clint gasps, 

“No!” 

so he slides his hands around Clint’s straining thighs and up to cup his ass instead, concentrates on making his mouth a tight, wet place for Clint to drive into. He relaxes his throat as much as he can and Clint sinks deeper with a shattered cry, his hips stuttering. It’s not long before his hands start to scrabble against the wall, that tell-tale sign and Phil hums low in his throat, presses up with his tongue and,

“Fuck! Oh, jesus, Phil….oh fuuuuucccccck…”

Clint comes in long, bittersweet spurts, shaking and cursing as Phil swallows around him. 

Phil holds Clint in his mouth, suckling lightly as he shudders his way down, holding him until Clint softens and slips slowly free of his lips. Phil’s almost sad because giving Clint what he wants, what he needs, is absolutely up there on his favourites list and seeing that dazed, wrecked look on his face, knowing he put it there, it’s worth any cricked neck or raw throat. Plus it’s fun, and hot as hell. It’s his turn to smirk when Clint shakily lowers himself and kisses him, chasing his own taste on his lips. But, almost sad or not, he also desperately wants _more_ so when Clint breaks the kiss, throws himself onto his front with legs spread wide and demands,

“Now _fuck_ me.”

Phil does not need to be invited twice.

Desperate as he is however, he’s not above a little revenge and while he does exactly as Clint asks he does it at his own, satisfyingly glacial, pace. Because like this Clint’s his, and will stay his for as long as he can make this last. So Phil makes it last. He fucks Clint slow and deep, rubbing round and stretching out Clint’s hole where he’s relaxed and pliant with orgasm, first with lubed fingers, taking his time to go from one to two to three easily, and then with the blunt, hot length of his sheathed cock. Phil slides a pillow under Clint’s hips as he fills him, laying himself out flat as he can against the full stretch of Clint’ back, leaning into his incredible shoulders, letting Clint feel his weight as he moves with long, slow strokes which are designed to coax Clint back out of the sleepy, satisfied place he’s floating in and bring him back to Phil. And they do. At first Clint lies quite still, making sweet little noises, accepting Phil easily, but as Phil keeps going, and going, and _going_ , just holding himself steady and rocking relentlessly in and out of Clint’s body, Clint starts to tense, to push back, to whine for more. He’s so needy, so greedy, so sweet, so lovely and having him so close settles a deep contentment into Phil’s chest, threatens to knit up the torn edges of his soul where life and Loki have left them ragged. Just now, like this, he’s complete. 

Clint whines again and Phil smiles, knowing exactly what he wants. He refuses to give it to him though, keeps his slow pace, lifts a little, angles his hips so that each stroke drags across Clint’s sweet spot, makes him gasp and shake, helpless under Phil’s weight to do anything but take what he’s offered. It’s agonising for Phil too, holding back like this, but it burns in the best way and feeling Clint fall apart again under him sets Phil to flying. A few minutes and Clint’s whines turn to moans, a few minutes more to begging for “more, god, oh please more,” and then finally, lengthily, to pleading that he, “can’t, Phil, please, please, I can’t”. Phil knows it’s not true, knows that Clint knows if he really does want to stop all he has to do is say so, but he checks in anyway, leaning low and growling into Clint’s ear while still rocking mercilessly into him,

“Can you not sweetheart? I can stop if you want. But I don’t think you want me to. Am I right? I think you want to come for me again. Clint? Am I right?”

There’s a tense, strained silence, broken only by the steady, slick sounds coming from between their bodies and then Clint hitches a breath, almost sobs, gives Phil a broken version of the same word he himself had offered, _“Yeeesssss”_.

Phil’s heart soars, “Good.”

He pushes in again, particularly slowly, particularly firmly angled and Clint jerks, groans and ruts down into the pillow underneath him. Phil works his hand between and finds him hard again, throbbing in his palm. He smiles darkly. Beautiful.

“Oh, Clint, that’s good, very good, there we are, up you come.”

Gripping Clint’s hips Phil pulls him up to his knees, makes sure he’s steady enough to hold his own weight. Then he kisses his spine, once, twice, three times and says gently, 

“Good, sweetheart, good boy, you’re so good, so good. Yes? Yes. Here we go then.” 

At Clint’s startled moan and dazed nod Phil starts to fuck him in earnest, shortening his strokes, quickening the pace, chasing the pleasure he’s been holding back for them both for what feels like hours. Clint drops to his elbows and bows his head, a constant stream of curses and encouragement dripping from him like music and Phil keeps the beat of it, hips pistoning, sweat running down his chest, the room filled with the smell of sex, Clint’s cries, Phil’s harsh breaths and soft thud of flesh meeting flesh. It’s getting harder and harder to hold back, the strain almost overwhelming, so Phil licks his palm and reaches to take Clint’s cock in a loose, wet grip and stroke him in time with his pummelling. Clint yowls and pushes back hard but one of his hands comes up, flailing round in the air behind his back and the little noises he’s making take on a high, tight edge. It’s a step above and beyond but there’s nothing Phil can do to stop himself lifting his own hand from Clint’s hip, reaching out and taking hold of Clint’s, anchoring it firmly as if he’s holding Clint together, the way Clint's holding him together. Their grip on each other is the only solid place in the world now, binding and burning. Phil uses the leverage to haul Clint back onto his cock turning punishing strokes into a deep and dirty grind as he pulls them together as if they could meld into one body. Clint gives a groan, a low, pained, rumble that Phil feels rippling maddeningly around him, then he clenches _tight_ and within moments he’s coming again, striping over the bed and dripping down Phil’s fist. Phil grins,

“Oh, that’s right, that’s it, good, good, _good boy_ , such a good boy for me…” 

and Clint moans again, deep in his chest, a fresh wave spilling from him as he clenches even harder.

The squeeze, the glorious shake of heat around Phil’s cock is too much, much too much and Phil slams into his own orgasm _hard_ , falling off the edge of the world and into Clint, roaring out his pleasure and possession as he fills him. 

He does his best to rock them both through the aftershocks but his knees are shaking, Clint’s trembling on one arm and neither of them are holding themselves up very well so eventually he has to pull back, letting go for only as long as it takes to slide himself free and deal with the condom before they both collapse into a sweaty, sticky heap, panting next to each other on the mattress. It’s suddenly too hard to keep his eyes open so Phil lets them close. He’s not asleep, not quite, but he drifts, safe, warm, satisfied and with Clint. It’s all he wants.

He barely even notices when he retakes Clint’s hand.

>>===>>

When Phil comes to, blinking, he’s puzzled as to where he is at first. There’s a warmth at his front and a soft tired, happiness floating in his bones. He struggles back to proper wakefulness and _shit_. 

He has Clint wound in his arms, wrapped up tight, one hand on his head, carding through his hair. 

Oh god. 

He’s not supposed…they don’t…they don’t _do_ cuddling after sex, Clint’s never, ever asked for it and here he is groping like some clingy octopus.

Fuck. 

What in hell’s name was he thinking? Phil silently berates himself, even knowing that he wasn’t thinking, that thinking had been impossible after sex like that, but angry with himself anyway. He knows better and should protect them both better, that’s his job and sex shouldn’t…. he groans internally, because oh god, the sex. It had been so _good_ but much, _much_ more intense than their usual style. Another wave of frigid realisation washes over him. Oh, fuck. Did he really push Clint that hard? Oh lord, did he really call him sweetheart? _Good boy?_ He doesn’t usually, he doesn’t, they don’t… fuck. It had felt so right at the time, he’d never felt so close to another human being in his _life_ , but now… Dizzy nausea rolls through him. He did say it. He knows he did. For fuck’s sake. 

Why had he been so stupid? He likes using pet names, sweet names, always has, but never with Clint. Before Loki it hadn’t been right for what they had – even in jest - and after, when the desire to call Clint something that would be just _his_ sometimes rises so strong and fierce it actually scares Phil, he’s always bitten his tongue hard for fear of Clint hearing the truth in whatever words slipped out. And now….How had he let his guard so far down? Using a name like sweetheart? Placing a claim like _good boy_? Fuck. He might as well rip out his heart and offer it still dripping to Clint right now. 

Not that Clint would step on it, not that he’d mishandle it, no, Phil trusts him more than that. But certainly, and almost worse, he’d place it kindly on a shelf with a ‘thanks-but-no-thanks-I’ll-see-myself-out.’ By now Phil’s sure of Clint’s lack of romantic interest like he’s sure of the back of his own hand. And now he’s here, bloody hugging Clint, holding on well after the orgasms have finished in a way that would be very, very hard to explain away as part of their friendly touch. This is not a pat to the shoulder, a helpful hand when injured or a post-mission squeeze and high-five, this is a full-on lover’s embrace. Damn. How long has Clint been putting up with it? A quick glance at the clock display he has JARVIS project onto the wall for him shows it must have been at least half an hour. Double fuck. Phil has no idea how to extricate himself with dignity.

The worst part, the very worst part, is that he absolutely does not want to. Ever. Phil would live the rest of his life here in this bed and die a happy man as long as Clint stayed here with him. 

In the circle of his arms Clint snuffles, stirs. Mercifully he seems to have been even more out of it than Phil so might have missed the worst of Phil’s clinging but still Phil stiffens, body tightening, bracing himself for the inevitable fall-out and rejection. Clint must feel that at least because he stills and then slowly, slowly rolls away until there’s at least a foot of mattress between them. He stretches showily and Phil tries not to admire the pull of all those muscles even as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. A few long, long moments later, Clint turns to him, 

“So.” he says, half-smiling awkwardly.

Phil nods, half paralysed by tension. “Yep.”

“That was….”

“Absolutely.”

Another stretch of silence trickles by uncomfortably, then Clint laughs, a small, forced giggle. “We should tell Tony that we found your stamina.”

“What?” The idea knocks the wind out of Phil and the nausea rises again, “Tell Stark…?” surely it’s a joke, a reference to Phil’s own joke, but he still doesn’t know what to do with the notion, the sudden image of Clint laughing cruelly with the team, ‘and then he called me _sweetheart_!’ comes from nowhere and it’s unfair, he knows it is because Clint wouldn’t, he _wouldn’t_ , but still it brings with it a moment of pure horror.

It must show on his face because Clint’s expression shutters suddenly and completely closed. “Joking.” he says, flatly, “I’m joking.” He waits a moment, perhaps for a reply, but Phil simply can’t formulate anything even halfway appropriate. Then, “I’d better head off. We both need some sleep.” 

Phil watches as he lurches out of bed and pulls on his jeans. Once they’re buttoned he turns back and Phil feels the strongest, stupidest urge to cover himself up, as if the sheet could cover what he needs to hide, but it’s that or pull Clint back down and confess everything. He holds himself back instead, makes himself meet Clint’s eyes. “I’ll….see you tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow. Yeah. Night then.” Two steps from the doorway Clint stops, pauses with his hand on the frame, doesn’t turn. “I was joking you know.” he says, lightly, “I won’t…Stark. I wouldn’t. I know this is secret. So…anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s _not_ , Phil wants to say, it’s not _secret_ , it’s _private_. Personal. Precious. If you were mine, actually mine, he wants to tell him, it wouldn’t be secret. I’d be _proud_. But he gets it. Secret. Understands why Clint wants it that way. 

And then it’s too late to say anything because Clint’s gone out of the room and Phil hears the sound of his own door locking, the security system engaging. He looks around him. The bed is a mess- damp, rumpled, cold, lonely. His body feels happily exhausted but his heart’s shredded back to rags and worst of all is the all-pervading sense that he has fucked something up. 

Something desperately important.

Royally.

How did an innocent evening of cartoons with the team turn into this?

>>===>>


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I know I say this every time but thank you so much for your comments! All your reactions and thoughts are seriously the things that keep me going and you are all wonderful :) x
> 
> This is a shorter chapter, but the next one is much longer, I hope that makes up for it.
> 
> So, Chapter Four, in which Phil realises something surprising and it does not make his life any easier. Enjoy x

>>===>>

When morning rolls round Phil has slept only fitfully and he simply can’t face wrestling the coffee machine in his apartment to get the caffeine he craves. There aren’t many times that he regrets not allowing Tony to automate his appliances, but when he does, it always centres around coffee. He decides to go down to the communal floor because there will be coffee in the kitchen there, there always is thanks to JARVIS, and more importantly, there will probably be people. Sleeping, or trying to anyway, on his own, lonely after last night, after the depth of that _connection_ he’d felt with Clint, felt and then lost, it’s left pieces of him raw and a friendly face is as much of a craving as the caffeine, whoever it might be. At this point he’d be grateful for Stark.

Fortunately as it turns out, it’s Steve and Bruce who are there when he arrives. Steve’s in the middle of his post-run breakfast, somehow putting away enough food to bury a normal man without putting a single stretch in his lycra, and Bruce has one of his fragrant herbal teas on the go, filling the kitchen with a bright fruity scent. They’re chatting softly as Phil enters, nodding them a bleary good morning and making a bee-line for the coffee maker and it’s soothing. The atmosphere. 

Phil pours himself a big mug, adds sugar and gulps a mouthful without bothering to look for cream or let it cool because the kick-start is more important right now than whether or not he scalds his mouth. He leans back on the counter in gratitude and lets the conversation wash over him as he waits to feel a bit more human. 

Unfortunately when he manages to tune in to the words, it’s not actually the most relaxing conversation, for Phil anyway. Because they’re discussing that damn cartoon. Oh great.

“No, I’m not saying that. I did enjoy it,” Steve says, gesturing with his butter knife as he sets up another round of toast, “it was an interesting show. Most of the characters were funny, I liked my guy. But I just didn’t get all the mooning.”

Bruce’s brow crinkles as he sips on his tea, “Mooning?”

“You know,” Steve’s mouth twists, a bit bashfully and he’s even gone a little pink, “all the goo-goo eyes the characters were making at each other. All that...staring. They were all doing it, you must have noticed.”

Bruce thinks a moment, then nods. “Ah. Yes, I did a bit. You’re right, there was a bit of romantic coding going on.”

“Romantic coding?”

“It’s a…style choice I suppose. It’s what it’s called when show writers and directors script scenes so that it looks like the characters are romantically involved, or that they could be. So, the staring, how they’re placed in relation to each other on screen, plot-lines, shared catchphrases. Those kinds of things.”

“But none of the characters _were_ romantically involved.” Steve looks genuinely puzzled and Bruce shrugs.

“Well, that happens.” he looks to Phil for confirmation, “it’s a thing, isn’t it Phil?” and then when Phil doesn’t reply right away, “Phil, you okay?”

He is not, in fact, okay. Phil’s frozen, mouth full of hot coffee, mind whirring madly. Because of course. Fucking _of course_ \- that’s why he’d been so uncomfortable watching the show, the entire thing was a vision of his worst nightmare made flesh, albeit animated flesh. All those romantic undertones, those lingering looks the characters gave each other whenever whoever they were gazing longingly at wasn’t looking back, the little brushings of hands that never went anywhere, never became anything, that’s his worst nightmare. Fuck, that’s his _life_ , or would be if he didn’t hold onto himself so fucking tight all the fucking time whenever Clint’s around, if he didn’t catch himself, wind it up and wind it in.... 

Jesus suffering _fuck_ , it’s everything he works so hard not to be. 

No wonder the damn show had set him on edge, made him so antsy. They might as well have called it _‘Living with Your Unrequited Love’_ and asked him to consult, write the script even. It’s mortifying, as if somehow he's had his heart stripped naked and put on display.

“Phil? Are you alright?” Bruce asks again and Phil startles, just the tiniest bit, to see Bruce watching him with a look that is a shade too sharp for comfort. He swallows, then takes another huge mouthful of coffee to cover his pause, chokes a little on the volume and the heat and wonders if he’s actually fooling anyone.

“What?” he aims for breezy, “Oh, yes. I’m fine. Just…morning caffeine fix, you know. Did you ask me something?” 

Bruce frowns just the tiniest bit. “We were just talking about _Castigators_ and romantic coding. It was fairly heavy handed in places, did you notice?”

Phil pretends to think the question over while really he’s summoning his best poker face. There are several reasons why he’s Fury’s ‘one good eye’ and one of those is the impenetrableness of his professionally blank expression. But it just doesn’t come easy this morning. He feels too exposed, a raw nerve, as though someone has tattooed ‘I heart Clint Barton’ across his forehead for everyone to see. Still, he makes his best effort. Shrugs,

“Really? I didn’t notice. Must have missed it.”

He says it nonchalantly and Bruce seems to accept it. Internally, Phil breathes a sigh of relief. There, that should shut down that conversation - subject changed, bullet dodged, well done Phil, excellent.

So of course, that’s exactly when Clint walks in.

Honestly, does nobody even eat in their own apartments anymore?

“Agent Coulson missed something? Wow, should we alert the newspapers? Is the world ending?” Clint says, going straight for the cereal cupboard and pouring himself a bowl of the most ludicrously coloured shapes he can find. He’s smiling through his joke but his voice has a dour undertone.

Well. It’s early and Clint probably needs coffee as well as sugar. Phil finds he’s pouring a second cup and holding it out before even thinking about it and _wow_ he apparently really needs to stop doing the ‘being clingy’ thing, but Clint’s hand, despite the fact that he’s back in the cupboard putting the cereal away, is out for the mug even before Phil’s turned round with it. Just like usual. The awkwardness Phil was dreading seeing just, isn’t there. So maybe he’ll get away with it, this once.

“Thanks,” Clint nods, taking mug and bowl to the table and sitting between Steve and Bruce. “So, this thing you missed, anything good?”

Bruce beats him to it, “Just about the show from last night. Steve was saying it had a lot of romantic overtones.”

“It did?” Clint takes a huge gulp of coffee, which Phil knows from his own smarting tongue is piping hot, “Oh. Then I guess I missed that too.”

Something in Clint’s tone makes Phil look over and...is that a blush? It is, just the tiniest, faintest flush of pink and his shoulders have gone all tight, maybe the others don’t see it but Phil knows those shoulders, is Clint…lying? Why would he be…? 

Steve tuts loudly, interrupting Phil’s train of thought. “Really? Am I the only Avenger who has eyes? I’m starting to think I need to send the rest of you for body language training or sight tests at the very least,” he huffs, “I still don’t understand it though,” and he does still look thoroughly bemused, “if the mooning isn’t going to turn into a story, then why have it in there at all? What’s the point?”

“Because, my dear, naïve Captain,” Tony announces his arrival into the kitchen with a fanfare of words and sweeping gestures, “ _sex sells_.” He’s in the same clothes as last night, clutching a Starkpad and wearing an expression bordering on unholy glee, “And the only thing that sells harder than sex is the _possibility_ of sex. A little will-they-won’t-they, do-they-don’t-they ambiguity to keep the fans interested. If you let your characters bone out all the sexual and romantic tension in episode one, then where’s the fun in that? But drag it out and drag it out and you keep audiences hooked. Plus, handily in this case, the writers can pretend that they never meant for the interactions to be taken that way.” He steals a piece of bacon from Steve’s plate, “It’s a win-win scenario.”

“Why,” Clint mumbles round a mouthful of loops or nuggets or whatever those purple things floating in his milk are, “why ‘handily’?”

Tony grins like a shark who knows the best punchline, “Because I think you’re forgetting the premise of the show. We all know, everyone knows, it’s based on us, our lives, and if the writers outright _said_ that Femme Ferrous and, oh, I don’t know…just for example, say…Major Union, were banging like a screen door in a hurricane, then that could be taken as them implying that Iron Man and good ol’ Captain America,” and here he drops Steve a lascivious wink, “are doing the same. Which, sadly for Old Man Icicle here, is untrue and could attract the attention of SI’s lawyers. So, they rely on insinuation and implication instead and maybe they’ll bring that storyline to a head later when the characters are well established in their own right and the fans have had time to react to the idea. As I said. Win-win.”

“Clever.” Clint says sourly.

Tony nods approvingly. “Devious.”

“I still don’t get it,” Steve, a little pink in the cheeks again, interrupts, “why does anyone care about who is maybe going with wh…”

“Because the public are _thirsty_!” Tony exclaims. “Come on, Cap! I mean, have you seen us? I mean, as a team we are none of us hard to look at and some of us are frankly stunning, am I right Phil?” Phil doesn’t jump, because the word ‘stunning’ hadn’t made him look at Clint, it hadn’t, but even if it had it wouldn’t matter because Tony barrels on anyway, “and besides that we are smart - most of us, rich - one of us, good-hearted, witty, and we risk our necks save the goddamned world on a regular basis. We’re fascinating! Of course the good folk of Earth want to hear all about our lives. Or, in this case to imagine us by proxy by watching _The Castigators_. It makes perfect sense.”

Which is true, it does. It’s an unsettling idea, but very logical and, given what Phil knows of the human mind and libido. Add that to Tony’s rhetoric kills because the that man could sell ice to Eskimos and probably has, and it’s hard to argue with his line of reasoning. Steve seems less convinced.

“But…”

Tony, however, is a long way from finished, “No buts! I will demonstrate. The lovely folk out there are so thirsty for _more stories_ that they don’t even rely on the actual show to provide what they want to see, they go so far make it themselves. Which demonstrates a work ethic I can totally respect. To prove my point, here, gentlemen,” he reverently lays his tablet flat on the table and it’s open at a page Phil can see is largely text with some title banners in red, “I give you the wonders of fanfiction. Where there are, in fact, plenty of butts.”

“Tony…” Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, “tell me you didn’t stay up all night reading porn.”

“Not all night!” Tony objects at the exact moment at Phil blurts, 

“It’s not all porn!”

All heads turn in his direction.

“I meant ‘not all night’ because in fact, it was mostly the early morning.” Tony says, and there’s that grin again, “Would you care to clarify your statement Agent?”

Phil refuses, he utterly refuses to blush. Here the professional blank face comes easier and thank god for that because Clint is staring at him, wide-eyed, “I meant exactly what I said. Fanfiction isn’t all porn. There’s some, sure, and it’s been a long time since I….but it can’t have changed that much. There are lots of different of types of stories.”

“Aha!” Tony practically cackles, “Was Young Phil a fanboy as well as a history geek? Did you read fanfiction? I can see it now, teenage you under the covers with a flashlight and a fanzine. No, a notebook, because you wrote it too, right? I bet you did. I bet you scribbled a few reader-insert stories, right? Maybe even made yourself into a Howli…”

Clint’s sharp, “Knock it off Stark.” Phil’s firm, “Enough.” and Steve’s quiet “That’ll do Tony.” all come at the same time and Tony thankfully clams up with a pleased pout.

There’s a couple of awkward seconds and then Clint turns to Tony and asks, “So, what kind of stories?” and refocuses Tony’s interest, sets him off again. Phil fights down the surge of warm gratitude that makes him want to hug Clint, settles for sending him a grateful nod. Clint will know what he means. He pours himself coffee and gets ready to head back upstairs because this conversation is becoming exhausting, and a little too personal. Tony, naturally, is still talking,

“Everything. _Castigators_ has plenty of entries in the fanfic Archive. Romance, obviously, various pairings or three-ings or everyone-ings even, but also re-imagining the canon. Re-writing published stories, wish fulfilment fic like ‘fix-its’ where they change endings…”

“Huh.” Clint interrupts, “I guess I can see the appeal in that. I got some wishes I could stand to see fulfilled.” He sounds wistful and Phil gets it, he knows Clint’s past well enough to know there are events and decisions he’d reverse if he could, and though Phil himself would miss so much the man that past created he often sincerely wishes that he had a magic wand he could wave over Clint's history. He settles for walking over and re-filling Clint’s coffee too because that’s the nearest thing he has to sorcery skills and it’s the nearest thing to a kiss or a ruffle of the hair that he’s allowed. Clint blinks at him, all surprised as always that anyone would take care of him, and Phil’s stomach just, flips. 

Tony shrugs, “Don’t we all? But there is plenty of the fun stuff too. And you _absolutely_ need to hear about this thing, the A/B/O universe…”

Phil absolutely does not need to hear about it thank you very much, he's come close enough to making a fool of himself for one day. So he nods to all and heads back upstairs, leaving Clint, Bruce and Steve listening to Tony holding court about...heating?... for some unknown and probably ungodly reason. 

Honestly, Phil’s had just about enough of that bloody show and its accoutrements and its _subtext_ already. As far as he’s concerned, the moment when Tony’s interest in it dies down and takes the growing mania with it cannot come soon enough. He’s very much looking forward to forgetting that _Castigators_ ever existed.

>>===>>


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, it was my sincere intention to get this completed and posted before I go on holiday next week but it is now clear that work, life, children and general levels of rushing about and argggh aren't going to allow this. So. I'm planning to get one more chapter up after this one before I leave (fingers crossed) and then we are on hiatus for at least the week I'm away and probably a bit longer to allow me to get the next chapter properly edited. Apologies, but this thing got so long and I don't want to rush it for you guys!
> 
> Secondly and as always my very deepest love and thank-yous for the your reviews, comments, theories and support. They're wonderful from the longest to shortest and every single word makes me smile hard and write just that little bit more. 
> 
> Longest chapter so far and quite a bit going on for poor Phil, he really is in a whirl. With special thanks to the lovely BeneficialAddiction for brainstorming with me while I agonised over the silliest of details :)
> 
> Enjoy x

>>===>>

Of course, it doesn’t die down. 

In fact, it seems to just keep growing - the interest if not the full mania - spreading across the other Avengers and the city at large. Suddenly seems that everywhere Phil goes, there’s something _Castigators_ related to blindside him. The next few weeks are a dizzying whirl made of that fucking show and missions and bad guys and bullets and cartoon images and _Clint_ that leave Phil feeling like his head is going to explode. No, not even his head, his whole self. The stream of events just keeps tumbling past and, much as he tries to get a grip, Phil just gets tumbled along with it.

…

Tony alters JARVIS’ acknowledgement and call tones for each Avenger to match the show’s soundtrack musical riffs for their particular characters. He also changes his StarkPhone ringtone to the _Castigators_ theme tune and seems to take perverse delight in letting the whole thing play out before he answers any call, unless it’s Pepper on the screen on course. Naturally, he gets a lot of calls so Phil finds himself constantly being earwormed and singing the first few notes before sharply stopping himself. Over and over. What feels like a very wearying hundreds of times a day. 

…

 

A military tech development lab accidentally releases a swarm of prototype medical drones that have ‘somehow’ become a) self aware and b) homicidal and the team is sent in to dispatch them. They’re so tiny and so numerous that fighting is almost useless, Steve, Nat and Bruce can’t hit them and Tony’s tech apparently attracts them to the point that he’s being swamped. The Avengers are honestly starting to struggle when suddenly Clint breaks for the lab’s flight deck. Within seconds he’s ‘commandeered’ a helicopter and surged into the air, dragging the entire swarm into pursuit of this bigger and apparently more interesting flying metal object, unfortunately with him inside. Phil, directing operations from the quinjet with his heart in his mouth, sees Clint’s plan instantly and when the call of, “Coulson?” comes over the comm. his answer is already good to go,

“Hawkeye, two miles south, there’s a large park, get to the centre, I have Thor en route. ETA less than a minute.” 

Phil doesn’t finish with the ‘be careful’ he wants to say because it has no place here, now, but his heart screams it anyway. And then all he can do is watch, the ninety percent of him that’s blazing pride at how smart Clint is, how brave, how competent, almost-but-not-quite quieting the ten percent shaking in sheer abject terror at watching him be pursued by tiny metallic serial killers. 

The plan works, Clint lures the swarm into the empty space and Thor arrives, already summoning lightning to fry the lot of them. The power of Thor’s blast sends a shockwave that kills the drones but unfortunately it also rips the air from under Clint’s rotors and sends the copter plummeting. Phil, always, always watching, swallows his scream and uses it to re-direct Tony to scoop Clint out of the wreck just before it becomes a fireball. In the end Clint’s safe and the drones are gone so no harm, no foul but, despite the celebration as Tony treats the team to shwarma yet again, all Phil can see is that falling helicopter, all he can hear is the thumping in his head that keeps chanting, ‘he would never have known, you’d never have been able to tell him.’ And even though Phil knows that he _can’t_ tell him, that he has nothing to say that Clint particularly wants to hear, he also can’t stop that voice.

…

Back at the Tower after, Phil tracks Clint down to the gym. Really he only means to make sure that he’s alright - to congratulate him on his plan, maybe ask him to try and remember the laws of aviation with regards to air patterns, genuine handler stuff - but when he finds Clint, he’s in the shower. The thumping starts again and with that and the water running over Clint’s flanks, the wired look on his face as he fights his way down from the adrenaline…Phil just has to touch him. Just has to know, know for sure, that he’s still _here_. Clint’s head falls willingly back onto Phil’s shoulder as Phil runs his hands down his stomach, his arms, circles his waist, as he presses lightly against the bruises on his hips that are just starting to bloom after Tony’s brutal rescue. Phil’s trembling hands glide and slide over Clint’s body, making the claim, the plea to never do that again that Phil himself cannot, will not, must not voice. Clint’s breath comes harsh against his neck, skin hot and hard in his palm, but he says nothing, save for a few quiet moans. After, Phil leaves Clint shaky-legged and sleepy-eyed under the warm water, goes back to his rooms alone to change into dry socks and shirt. He spends a long time sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. 

…

Phil finds Steve in the sitting room, watching _Castigators_ with a notebook and his most serious ‘Captain’ expression on his face, asking JARVIS to pause every now and then. His explanation, when Phil asks, is surprisingly simple,

“Turns out that they have actual military consultants on the writing staff Phil. And they’re writing about things we’ve dealt with, but the characters don’t always do what we did. So I thought, why not see if there’s anything to learn from their tactics? A second opinion always helps, even this show could have something to teach us, don’t you think?”

Phil can’t argue with that logic, even though he really, really wants to. 

…

Clint sends over an email with a link to an article about a sculpture exhibition over at MoMA that Phil has been meaning to visit. He marks it ‘ _sounds interesting boss. Shall we?_ ’ and Phil agonises for hours over how to reply. Which he hates because it isn’t like they haven’t gone there together before, they have, several times, before Loki, and he really, really doesn’t want his stupid, unruly feelings to get in the way of being Clint’s friend. 

Eventually he settles on _‘Sure, tomorrow? Barring callouts?_ ’ and reads it sixteen times before sending as if he’s some angsty teenager. Clint agrees quickly and they go. 

The sculpture is breathtaking in parts, disgusting in others (pea-roe-foam? Jason Rhoades was an artist who had…interesting ideas) and Clint’s analysis of form and colour is intense. Phil loves to hear him talk, to watch him focus and get enthralled by the tiniest details and to blush just a tiny fraction when he realises what he’s doing. He’s adorable, passionate and smart and adorable and Phil turns holding back the urge to touch him - to hold his hand as they walk round, to kiss that blush off his cheeks - into an art form all of his own. They wander the galleries for hours, talk, laugh, drink coffee and eventually meet Nat for a very late lunch, which doesn’t disappoint Phil in the slightest, honestly, but does mean he guards himself even more closely. All in all, they have a great day. A perfectly lovely friends’ day out. 

Phil goes home with souvenir postcards, an aching grin and a tension headache.

…

Well-meaning animal-rights activists release genetically enhanced rats into the sewer system _again_. It takes days to get the smell out of his suit.

…

Thor, who has apparently learned about the courtesy of wearing earphones while watching his StarkPad in enclosed areas, binges the two seasons of _Castigators_ on repeat. Phil knows this even despite the headphones because Thor has the loudest laugh in this or any other realm and apparently finds the battle scenes consistently _hilarious_. Anyone who takes a quinjet or shares a room with him over the next few weeks leaves with their ears ringing and Thor himself begs Tony to make a StarkPad that can withstand transport by Bifrost so that he can take the show home and show it to Lady Sif. He calls it, ‘a valiant recording of the trials of battle worthy of the sagas of his Fathers’. Phil calls it damn annoying.

…

In the middle of a fight with a very angry woman who calls herself ‘Flashdance’ (for goodness sake) and has far too much familiarity with flamethrowers for Phil’s liking, Tony takes enough of a direct hit that he’s forced to leave the scene and exit the suit for a few moments, lest he gets cooked like canned beans. Unfortunately, he climbs out in front of a crowd who are very interested to find that, having been called out at short notice, instead of the undersuit he’s wearing a _Castigators_ logo t-shirt under the armour. Tony, being Tony, poses for pictures which are all over the internet even before ‘Flash-douche’ (Clint’s nickname, not Phil’s) is apprehended. Which she is, finally, thanks to Nat’s knowledge of underground pipe-systems and Hulk’s smashing power, because nothing beats fire like a mains-pressure flood. The pictures, however, prompt another flood - this time of _Castigators_ merchandise into the Tower which Tony declares to be not as good quality as the few authorised Avengers products but nonetheless distributes happily like a black-bearded Santa Claus. Phil ends up with ‘DeadCentre’ socks because of course he does. He wears them only around his apartment. Because they’re warm. Not because they’re purple.

…

The team manages another cards and movie night. Clint kicks everyone’s ass at UNO, but denies all allegations of using his circus-acquired sleight-of-hand skills. Phil doesn’t believe his innocent face for a single second but says nothing because the twinkle he gets in his eye when he slaughters his opponent with a well-placed plus four is nothing short of charming. So cheeky, so attractive, so goddamned Clint. That man could cheat the very devil and make him like it so Phil stands no chance, he just laughs and hands over his cards to be counted.

Eventually, when everyone is cleared out of virtual matchsticks, they move to the lounge and Phil braces himself for another evening of sharing the loveseat and forcibly not snuggling Clint. Indeed, he’s even first there this time, settled on the seat and resigned to his fate, but Clint, barely halfway into the room suddenly cries off, declares he’s not in the mood, heads to bed. The wave of disappointment that breaks over Phil at this announcement is unreasonably sharp and shocking and it lingers. He hardly sees the movie, certainly doesn’t appreciate it and trudges upstairs soon after the credits in a shitty mood of his own. 

He feels a lot better when at 3am Clint crawls into his bed to deliver a long, slow, luxurious blowjob that has Phil floating, not totally sure if he’s still dreaming. Half-awake he moans out his yeses and just hazily sails along on a sea of easy, loopy, Clint-based pleasure, squirming against the sheets until he loses himself in the warmth and welcome of Clint’s mouth, breathing a sigh that might be Clint’s name . Clint’s there when Phil slips fully back to sleep and that makes the world wonderful. It quickly slips back to shitty again when the bed is empty and cold in the morning.

…

Tony appears on _Ellen_. Ostensibly he’s there to raise awareness of a new project of the charity arm of SI that aims to fund arts students in collage and provide the arts programmes in elementary and high schools with funding and newer tech as well as visits from experts in various art and performing art fields. However, and obnoxiously, the talk turns to _Castigators_. Mainly this is because Tony has somehow made it past the stylists wearing a shirt featuring fanart of Femme Ferrous and Major Union in a romantic clinch. Kissing. Enthusiastically. Phil, in the Tower lounge and watching with the rest of the team, vows that someone is going down a security level for this. Ellen however, naturally adores it and so does her audience. She and Tony have a long discussion about who he ‘ships’ from the show, who would be his ‘otp’, ‘brotp’ and ‘notp’. It’s almost another language to Phil but Tony answers every question enthusiastically,

“Well Ellen, as you can see I do have a fondness for FerrousUnion…” the audience squeals, “on a purely aesthetic level _of course_ ,” he winks, “but I’m not about to get into shipping wars. If you good folks want to ship…” 

(Phil realises this must be the word for ‘imagine in a relationship together’,)

“GreenBack, or FemmeGreen or RedUnion or DeadRed or LadyFerrous or even LadyGreenUnion, then you go right ahead,” 

(these then must be the names of the relationships, or ‘ships’, the two character names pushed together to make an amalgam,)

“fandom is a free country and I’m certainly not for policing it. Love is love, you know?”

The audience claps, and when they stop Tony beckons a camera closer until he’s looking conspiratorially right into the lens, 

“I will tell you a secret though, I was surprised by one ship…the mighty DeadDescript,” and at the name the audience cheers again, “It’s so popular with you guys online! I wouldn’t have thought of it at first, but it works, so I guess maybe even I don’t know everything after all…”

Ellen laughs and they move on to talking about the charity project but beside Phil Clint has gone very still and Phil of course knows why. 

‘DeadDescript’.

It has to be an amalgam of DeadCentre and NonDescript, the characters based on Clint and….him. And the idea that they’re being ‘shipped’? That obviously touches a nerve for Clint. Phil watches the rest of the interview intently because he can’t bring himself to look at Clint, to see exactly what emotion is on his face. Worry? Embarrassment? Tension? Amusement? He’s not ready to know. Not quite yet. He waits until the interview finishes then turns to make a flippant comment, maybe a joke to diffuse the tension but Clint’s already gone, moved off as silently as only an ex-assassin can. When Phil looks over at Nat in surprise, she’s shaking her head. He assumes it must be at something on her ever-present StarkPad. 

…

He can’t find Clint.

...

He can’t find Clint for three days.

…

Phil visits Bruce’s lab with paperwork and is surprised to find that he has a fan-made compilation video playing as he works through his morning stretches. It’s _Castigators_ , because of course it is, Doctor Green’s ‘best bits’ set to music. When Phil asks, Bruce tells him he finds it ‘relaxing’ and so does the Other Guy, 

“It’s the way they portray him.” Bruce explains, “He’s big but not scary. He’s controlled. Clever, cleverer actually, and useful. It’s pretty amazing that he can be seen that way. I mean, I know it’s not the Hulk himself exactly, I wish, but for people to take to the character like they have? I like to think that there’s something in that version that rings true.” he shrugs, “There must be. A good story can’t be based on things that aren’t there, not entirely. There has to be some spark of truth behind it. Don’t you think?”

Phil’s first instinct is to say that no, that sounds like wishful thinking, but he can’t be that cruel to Bruce. So he murmurs some agreement and changes the subject to the reports he needs Bruce to sign off and the topic is dropped neatly enough. He’s relieved, though Bruce seems…disappointed somehow, Phil can’t imagine what about. He clears out as quickly as he can politely do so, but for the rest of the day he finds himself turning Bruce’s words over and over in his mind. ‘Spark of truth’…for some reason the phrase won’t leave him alone.

…

In fact, none of that damned show will leave him alone. Tony’s shirts, Steve’s careful analysis, Bruce’s ‘relaxing’ videos, Thor’s constant re-watching…even his bloody socks. It’s following him around and it’s starting to feel suffocating. It seems like there’s a screen somewhere in the Tower playing one episode or another, even though Phil’s never voluntarily sat down and watched it again he’s probably seen every episode at least once and it does not get any better. In fact, in later episodes the romantic tension just gets more obvious, especially for the ‘big’ ships, which of course includes DeadCentre and NonDescript, or ‘Loxley’ and ‘Jon Doe’ as they’re ‘really named’ for fuck’s sake because apparently everything in this show has to be a pun. Almost every episode has some kind of romantic insinuation in it: 

The episode where NonDescript has to rescue DeadCentre from a high ledge in a burning building and winds up carrying him out of the inferno bridal style. 

The one where they’re trapped in an unheated cabin in a blizzard and, convinced they’re about to die, have a long and meaningful conversation about their history and ‘friendship’, all while shaking in their shared sleeping bag, the growing tension only interrupted when the rest of the team dig them out. 

The one when NonDescript gets shot and DeadCentre, thinking him dead, rips throwing stars through more than thirty assailants in a bloodlust frenzy that helpfully clears their path to an exit when NonDescript comes round again. 

The one where one of them gets turned into a bloody werewolf.

The one where the _Castigators_ have to go undercover to watch for an alien invasion and DeadDescript end up having to pose as romantically involved roommates, one of whom works in a coffee shop. That one hurts particularly, because the scene that comes when the mission finishes, the aliens are thwarted and they have to move out of their fake apartment, is played in long-drawn out silence. Neither Loxley nor Jon are apparently willing to be the first to leave, and the looks on their faces, even though Phil knows they’re just drawn there, are …achingly familiar.

But, like the rest of the episodes, it all goes almost nowhere except straight through Phil’s heart. Every time he gets confronted by it, it takes all his skills to appear unmoved on the outside while his innards feel like they’re close to combusting. And the show just keeps appearing.

The only mercy is that Natasha doesn’t seem to be involved in the obsession. She’s usually too busy reading. And Clint, while he’s sometimes been in the room while the show is playing, has never really commented on it. Certainly never mentioned it to Phil. But then, for Clint to mention it, Phil would have to have actually seen him recently.

And he hasn’t. Not outside work anyway. Not around the Tower, not in the gyms and definitely not for…anything else. Yes, Clint’s taken on extra ops for SHIELD recently and joined some of Tony’s outreach projects so it’s not like there’s no _reason_ for him to not be around, there’s nothing sinister going on. It’s just that it feels like maybe…well. Phil misses him.

…

Phil hasn’t really seen Clint for a week or so and the absence hurts almost as much as the wall that falls on him. 

It’s a sizable wall but there’s a kid hiding behind it who either hasn’t heard the Avengers calling for the building to evacuate or who doesn’t dare move. Phil should be in the van but when it starts to topple its obvious he’s the closest so instead he’s out the door and running towards the real-life jenga game before he has time to think - no hesitation, no looking back. The kid’s fine in the end, Phil’s a dab hand at shoving people out of the way, but the same can’t be said for Phil’s suit pants, or the leg that’s in them. Clint gets to him first, within seconds actually, and clears some of the rubble before Cap arrives, heaves the rest away in one go and then, mortifyingly, carries Phil back to the quinjet. Clint follows and Phil tries very hard not to look as ridiculous as he feels.

It turns out that the leg is not broken, just bruised to the bone and Phil has to spend the night on the medical floor, rigged up in one of the regeneration cradles Tony had Doctor Cho install. All the team visit, mostly just to say ‘hey, how you doing, sorry you got squished’, or something of the like, but Bruce and Clint stay a while longer, chatting, doing crosswords. Eventually Bruce starts yawning, apologising because Hulk always takes it out of him, and then it’s just Clint, to Phil’s secret delight. He stays and they quietly fill in the boxes, challenging each other’s word power, sneaking looks at the answers in the back of the book when they think the other isn’t looking and almost invariably being caught and Phil thinks maybe laughter really is the best medicine. Clint just makes him feel better, like always.

It’s really late when Clint’s eyes start closing, nodding over the pen and Phil reluctantly nudges him, sad that the evening has to end,

“Hey, Clint. You should head to bed. You’ve kept me company long enough. You don’t have to stay up for me when you’re this tired.”

“’m not _that_ …” he’s cut off by a yawn, “okay, maybe ‘m a bit tired.”

“You’re more than a bit tired. Go.”

Clint frowns, scrubs at the back of his neck in that adorable way he always does, “You’re okay though?”

Phil smiles, “I’m fine. I’m in medical, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“You need a list? Needles, pins, bandages, having to stay still all the time, nosey doctors, the white walls, the beeps, the _smell_ …” Clint loses the end of his list in another smothered yawn.

“Bed.” Phil tells him., “Now.”

“Alright, alright, I’m going.” Clint stands, stretches then leans down, “Night then Phil.” 

He leans, bending towards the bed and Phil’s heart stutters because it looks like, it looks like…like Clint’s going to kiss him goodnight. Here. Right out here in public. His lips are so close, so close to Phil’s and while Phil’s tasted them a thousand times before it hasn’t been…like this. Not without the promise of something more afterwards. But still it looks like….Phil forgets how to breathe. He feels himself tense, muscles ready to lift, to lift him to meet…

Abruptly Clint stops, freezes then pushes his shoulders back and cracks his neck loudly.

Shit.

He’d been stretching. Fucking stretching. _Of course_ he’d been stretching and Phil had almost…

Shit.

He covers his near-fatal error by grimacing, “Maybe you should stay in medical tonight too Barton, if your joints sound like that.”

A sad, hungry look flashes across Clint’s face and then he’s chuckling, rubbing at the back of his neck again, “Yeah, maybe. But they’d have to catch me first.” He’s already at the door, pulling it closed behind him, “Night boss. Sweet regenerating.” and he’s out before Phil can reply.

He finds it very hard to sleep. It’s not the noise, or the white walls or even the smell. It’s the bone-deep wish that he just can’t stop wishing, that Clint would come back. Phil knows that Clint won’t, he’s in medical for god’s sake and even if that was a place either of them found even _remotely_ sexy Phil’s strapped into the cradle from the hips down and JARVIS has cameras everywhere so there’s absolutely zero potential for any fooling around. 

But still. It would be nice to have company. It would be nice to be held. 

Sure, Clint probably would hug him, if he asked, just like any of the team would. They’re not touch averse. In fact, there are days when they have trouble stopping Thor from hugging everyone he meets, Asgardians apparently being as jubilant about physical contact as they are fighting, and Bruce on a Hulk-comedown can be almost as bad. 

But Phil wants to be _held_. 

Spooned. 

Squished. 

Coddled, crushed, caressed, caught up, lullabyed and _loved_ by someone who loves him and who he can _love back_. The same particular someone as always. The wish throbs worse than his leg, aches like his skin wants to crawl off his bones with the need to just be touched…but it isn’t going to happen. Phil squashes it down as far as it will go until it’s coiled in his gut and closes his eyes.

He’s tired. Tired from more than the weariness of having his body’s resources diverted to the cradle healing his leg. These last few weeks have been too exhausting, too strange and too exhausting. He’s always been the master of his own life, prided himself on it, being in charge, following his own plan, but lately….Phil presses his head down into the pillows, wills sleep to come for him. He wants off the rollercoaster, wants to finish riding these highs and lows. If only he knew where to find the ‘stop’ button.

>>===>>


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are at chapter six, which will be the last before my short holiday hiatus. See you in about a fortnight!
> 
> Firstly - no, I haven't done this on purpose, this was meant to be all finished before I went away, I'm sorry and I do love you all really. Honest.
> 
> Secondly - all your comments are wonderful, thank you, and this is a shameless plea from me that if you have even the slightest urge to comment, please just do it! I love hearing what you think and especially seeing what you see that I didn't... :)
> 
> Thirdly - You know the saying that goes 'it'll get worse before it gets better' ?
> 
> Enjoy x

>>===>>

In the morning Phil gets cleared by medical almost as soon as he wakes up. He forgoes the offer of breakfast, because hospital food is hospital food even if the hospital is in the Tower of a genius billionaire, and instead heads for the communal kitchen where the automated servers always have something cooking. The leg is slightly stiff, a little sore, but it's nothing major so he walks the whole way, stairs and all. It feels good. 

Apparently he’s not the only one being somewhat lazy today because most of the team are in the kitchen too, (of course they are, what else did he expect?), all milling about prepping breakfast and picking at a giant plate of waffles. There are several other plates similarly laden on the table, a couple more over on the counter and Phil would ask but just at that exact moment, Clint looks up. He smiles a greeting and Phil’s stomach does that dizzying ‘fall-and-flip’ manoeuvre it seems to have perfected recently. He tries very hard not to let it show on his face. Instead he takes a plate of waffles from the ever-growing stack and finds himself a seat across from Bruce. He can do this without pining, without making an emotional big deal of it. It’s just breakfast for god’s sake.

“Morning boss, how’s the leg?” Clint asks, coming to the table from over by the coffee maker.

Phil takes the proffered mug from Clint's hand. It's so warm. “It's fine, thank you. The cradle cleared up the bruising so I’m good as new.”

“That’s great Phil. We should send Helen a thank you note.” Nat walks across the kitchen, plate of waffles in hand, bottle in the other, “Syrup?”

Who says no to syrup? “Thanks.” Phil pours himself a generous dose and starts eating. See? Just breakfast. Easy. Next Steve comes to the table with his own plate which is piled high even for him, and alright, Phil has to ask, “Okay, what is with all the waffles?”

“Ah, that I fear may be my doing.” Thor, over at the counter and chewing through waffles at a rate of knots, shrugs as sheepishly as a six-foot-plus, blonde, actual, literal god with a mouthful of syrup can, “I was hoping to incite the device to deliver my repast more quickly and was perhaps somewhat over-zealous with my button-pushing. Now it simply won’t stop creating them, despite all my entreaties.”

Nat pats Thor’s shoulder in passing as the waffle maker spits out yet another batch, “Hence the impromptu waffle party. Don’t panic big guy. JARVIS relayed our breakfast situation to Tony, he'll fix it. I just hope he comes up before we all drown in pastries, even you and Steve can’t keep eating waffles forever.”

Once again, it’s as if Tony’s waiting behind the door for his cue. It’s a skill he has, which probably relies on natural dramatics, snarkiness and the listening ears of JARVIS. 

He arrives, sailing into the kitchen with typical aplomb, “Natasha, as if I would ever let that happen to my favourite ladyspider. Hey, you, Waffles McGinty,” he points at the waffle-maker, “cease and desist or I’ll donate you to the McDonalds nearest NYU campus and you can see how you handle their morning rush. No…I mean it. Stop.” He snaps his fingers and, because apparently it’s that easy when you’re Tony Stark, the errant machine instantly powers down with a grumbling beep. Tony frowns. “We will talk about your language later mister. And Thor, my lovely electrical deity, perhaps keep your sparks off the appliances, hey?” Spinning a chair round Tony straddles it and squeezes into place at the table, snagging his own waffle. “What were we talking about? Anything interesting? No? Good.” 

His grin when he turns it on Phil has that amused, shark-like quality to it again and instantly the sweet dough turns to paste in Phil’s mouth. An agent doesn’t make it as high as he has in an agency like SHIELD without developing particular a instinct for trouble and right now all Phil’s alarms are blaring on high-alert. Something awful is about to happen.

Tony’s grin widens as if he can sense how Phil’s heart has suddenly picked up. “Now, my lovelies, you may not have realised but today celebrates three whole months since we first discovered everyone’s favourite semi-biographical show, the wonder that is _Castigators_ …”

“I wouldn’t say it’s _everyone’s_ favourite show Tony…” Bruce takes the words right out of Phil’s mouth but Tony isn’t deterred.

“Of course it is,” Tony asserts, “who doesn’t like it? It has everything, action, adventure, good versus evil, romance…And, speaking of romance….”

“Do we have to speak of romance?” It comes out sharper than Phil intended and more truthfully than he’d like, because fuck, _not again_ , but again Tony ploughs through the objection.

“As I was saying before I was so pessimistically interrupted…today is the three month anniversary of our first viewing and so to celebrate I had JARVIS look round the major fansites. The Archive, ArtHole, Fictopia, etc.…” as he talks he throws a hand towards the far wall and JARVIS projects an image of each site onto it, making a rapidly growing collage. Damn, Phil had had no idea there were so many, “and then I asked him to compile a chart of the top OTP’s. Just for fun.”

Clint’s head comes up so quickly Phil legitimately fears that he might give himself whiplash. “You did what?”

“Pay attention Legolas," Tony tuts, "I had JARVIS look around the various fansites, check out the art and the meta and the fic about the show, analyse it and put together a list of who the fans like to pair with who for cuddles and sexy-times. In fandom parlance, their ‘one true pairings’”

“Why?” Clint looks stricken.

Tony shrugs, “Because it’s fascinating? Because it’s valid social commentary? Because it’s fun? Does there have to be a reason? Now, there’s hardly a character in the show that hasn’t been paired with every other character in every combination possiblebut some ships are definitely more popular than others. So, Lady and gentlemen, I give you…the OTP top five!” 

He waves his hand again and the projection becomes a simple bar chart, one axis blank, the other detailing amounts of fanworks. The numbers are astonishingly high. Phil swallows. The blank axis must be for ship names and this is it, he knows it, this is the bad thing that was about to happen. For a few moments loud buzzing fills his ears, loud enough that he doesn’t even hear Tony talking through the first few bars of the chart but eventually his voice filters back through,

“..which is admittedly very pretty but apparently not as pretty as our second place couple, FerrousUnion!” The bar fills in with graphics of the two characters, the same picture Tony had worn to appear on _Ellen_ in fact, “I’ll admit I was a little shocked and disappointed with this result because lady-me and electrical-Steve are a particularly delectable pairing, don’t you think Cap?” Steve drops his head into his hands and Tony just chuckles, “But, the people have spoken and the shock winner, with the most fanart and fic currently recorded on the entire ‘net, is…..”

Don’t say it. Phil wills it to Tony with his entire being until he can almost see, can almost taste the words in the air, _don’t fucking say it_ …

“DeadDescript!”

Of course. 

Phil’s stomach drops as the chart fills in with another fanart graphic. In this art the pair of characters are wearing considerably fewer clothes than the previous pictures and despite the fact that they don’t _really_ look like him and Clint, Phil feels himself blushing. Beside him Clint’s stillness gives nothing away and Phil wants nothing more than to look, to see what Clint’s face is doing but he can’t, he mustn’t…

Deflect. It’s a tried and tested tactic. Deflect.

“I suppose there’s no accounting for taste…” he starts in his driest, best ‘Agent Coulson’ tone but Tony, unaffected as always, interrupts,

“I’d say not. But come on, it’s not what any of you expected, it is? Apparently the ‘oblivious pining’ motif is one that writers just can’t resist and the readers just must adore it too. But the eventual ‘declaring your feelings’ scenes, well,” he pauses a moment and drops what can only be described as an exaggerated leer, “whoooowheee. They are quite the steamfest, believe me. Those guys are so hot for each other and so madly, madly in love, it’s adorable. and _hot_.” he fans at himself with one hand, then leans slightly over the back of his chair towards Phil, “And here we all are, thinking you and our Hawk over there are 'just good friends'….”

With a sudden screech and no warning Clint's chair is pushed violently away from the table. “Will you just _**fucking SHUT UP!**_ ” His strangled bellow comes out of nowhere and Tony startles back. In fact they all do. Phil looks up and it's a shock to see Clint look like this, so fiercely angry, his eyes actually, literally glittering with rage, “I mean it Stark, just shut up! We _are_ just good friends, that’s all, and do you know why? Because the entire bullshit show and all this crap you seem to love about it is **fiction**. It’s fucking **fictional** , _all of it_ and I am _sick of hearing about it_. So just give it a fucking **BREAK**!”

Clint’s voice breaks on the last word and he's turning away and charging out of the room before anyone can react. Natasha makes to follow but Phil stops her, “No, I’ll go.” Because he should. He feels sick to his stomach, but he should. Because it’s time. Because if that’s how Clint reacts to even the joking suggestion that they might be in an actual relationship…if that’s how he really feels…Phil’s stomach cramps. It has to be time.

He leaves the room quickly but in time to hear Tony bite into his waffle and mumble innocently, “What did I say?”

>>===>>

Clint’s in the range, because where else would he be? Phil watches him as he walks down to the station he’s firing from, his form is as perfect as it always is when he wants it to be but his shoulders are tense as hell and he’s muttering angrily under his breath. He’s as angry as Phil’s ever seen him, and isn’t that just a knife in the gut? Still, every arrow flies exactly into the centre of whichever target he chooses and Phil can’t help but admire the strength of the arms that pull the heavy bow back without even a tremble. One more arrow hits, ironically, dead centre, this time almost sinking deep enough to tear off the fletching and Clint racks his bow, cursing.

“Fuck it! _Fuck it_ and fuck _Stark_ and fucking fuck every _fucking_ …”

Phil clears his throat and Clint whips round. His brow is still knotted but the second he sees Phil his eyes flip from anger to hunger and there’s that fall and flip again. Phil's belly jerks, hard.

“Phil.”

Clint snarls his name and want shoots up Phil’s spine. He tries to keep his voice steady because that isn’t what he came for, not this time, it _isn’t_ , “Came to see if you’re okay. I’m sorry about that, Stark, he’s just getting carried away…”

He trails off because Clint doesn’t seem to be listening. Instead he's stalking closer.

“Phil.” he says again, dark and dangerous, “I thought Nat would come find me, if anyone came at all. But I’m glad it’s you.”

“I…” 

There’s no time to say anything else because Clint is on him. His hands are gripping at Phil’s waist, inside his jacket, running up his back, his neck, roaming all over him while he’s crushing his lips against Phil’s own. Clint kisses like a frenzy, runs his tongue against the seam of Phil’s mouth in a demand for entry and instantly Phil wants nothing more than to grant it. It’s a triumph of need over willpower as he opens his mouth to Clint’s, lets him lick inside, and his own hands are digging into Clint’s hips, palming his shoulders, gripping the back of his neck. Clint’s a flood and Phil lets himself and any ‘not this time-s’ he ought to have spoken get thoroughly swept away. The kisses are frantic, bruising, demanding and delicious. Then Clint’s hand moves to Phil’s waistband and _pulls_ and Phil _goes_ \- stepping where Clint puts him so that they’re pressed hard together. Clint grinds against him and Phil moans into his mouth when he realises that Clint’s hard and, god, so is _he_ and when did that even happen? 

It’s sudden and furious and not why he came but Phil _wants_ , oh he wants and he wants and he wants so he lets Clint take and take and take until they’re rubbing desperately against each other panting and moaning whenever their mouths come free. Which isn’t often, given how their lips and teeth and tongues are thoroughly entangled and instead they’re swallowing each other’s sounds as if they’re the only sustenance that matters. 

Perhaps a lifetime of rutting and frotting and biting later Phil finds himself being spun and pushed so he’s leaning - still standing but bent forward over one of the racks that hold Clint’s bows and arrows. It’s a good job it’s a) empty and b) sturdy because the second his weight is on it Clint’s joins it, lying heavy and huge down the length of Phil’s back, keeping him held, hot, safe, nudging his stance to spread wider so Clint can slot in between his legs. His hands are on Phil’s belt, fumbling it open and his cock presses hard against Phil’s ass, pushing so that he can feel the heat even through all the layers of their clothing and yes, that’s… _yes_. Phil groans and presses back so Clint just grips him harder, drags his head to one side baring Phil’s throat. He sucks a string of messy kisses from his collar to his ear and takes the lobe between his teeth, worrying at it and growling. Phil shudders, sees stars.

“Yesss…” Clint hisses into Phil’s ear so that the warm sibilants send another shiver rushing through him, “yes, that’s it.” Clint kisses him again and again, right across his jawline, and Phil wants to sob with how very good it feels, “That’s it. Look at you. God, just look at you, you’re so hot. So fucking hot.” Clint’s tongue dances round the shell of Phil’s ear even as his hands start to dip under his waistband and Phil could tear himself in two not knowing which sensation to chase. Clint leans in, getting impossibly closer, “What do you think they would say,” he continues, panting hard, low and desperate, “ all those _fans_? all those writers, those artists, what do you think they’d say if they could see us like this? If they could see all those things they imagine and know that they’re _actually happening_? If they knew that they were _real_?”

It’s an icicle down Phil’s spine, a freezing realisation and there’s that big red ‘stop’ button he’d been looking for after all. All his brakes slam on instantly. He chokes out, “But they’re not.”

Clint doesn’t hear him at first, keeps kissing, keeps fumbling, “Hmm?”

Suddenly Phil doesn’t feel safe under Clint’s weight, he feels trapped and he starts to struggle to stand, “They’re not though, are they? They’re _not_.” It snaps out angry, bitter, almost a snarl.

The instant Clint feels Phil fight he’s up and off, backing away with hands up, giving Phil the space he wants so Phil can turn and see him. He looks wrecked, looks frightened, “What?”

“They’re not, are they?” Phil repeats, “Not real. This…” he waves at the space between him and Clint, a chasm only a few feet wide but a chasm all the same, “this isn’t...real.” It hits him all at once, how bad he wants what he doesn’t have, how much it _hurts_ and he closes his eyes against it for just a second, just to gather his strength and when he looks at Clint again it’s to say, “I…we can’t do this any more.”

Clint’s face falls. “Shit.” He whirls away with shocking violence, snatches up an arrow from the other rack and hurls it down the length of the range. “ _Shit_!” Neither of them have to look to see when it clatters to the floor, short of everything. Hawkeye has missed his mark. Phil pushes himself the rest of the way up off the rack, watching, wanting to go to him, not sure that he should. Clint stands perfectly still for an almost visible count of three and then turns back. He’s tense still, it’s clear in the lines of his shoulders but his face is carefully relaxed, almost blank. “Alright.” he says, flatly, “That’s fine. I mean, I knew you’d have to figure it out eventually I guess.”

Phil goes colder still, folds his arms to suppress the way his body wants to shake, “Figure it out?”

“Oh come on Phil,” Clint laughs, harsh, sad, “there’s no point pretending for me now. You and me, this, it’s a fuckbuddy thing, isn’t it? And things like that, they never work when feelings get involved. So, yeah, no more. Good call.”

Oh god. 

He knows. Clint _knows_. Somehow he knows, somehow Phil’s given away exactly how desperately he’s in love with him and now…”Feelings?” It comes out scratchy, high and on the verge of breaking.

Clint winces and stuffs his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor “Jesus, Phil. I...don’t think we need to…talk about it, do we? I mean, I get it, I understand. It’s just…not relevant.”

He knows and now he’s stomping politely but firmly all over Phil’s dreams. All over his heart. Phil wants to vomit, to push out all the bile threatening to drown him but words come out instead,

“No, I suppose it isn't.”

Clint smiles weakly and Phil hates, he just _hates_ the show of compassion that Clint’s putting on, putting on for him- the poor sap who fell in love with his best friend just because they started messing around. It’s the oldest, most tragic joke in the book. Then, just when he thinks it can’t possibly get any worse, Clint hammers home the last, most obvious and obnoxious nail into the coffin of their relationship,

“You and me, we can still be friends though, right? We’re still friends?”

Oh holy fuck that _burns_ , it hurts like hell, but Clint won’t stop looking at him with those big blue, glistening eyes, how does Phil make him stop looking at him? “Yes,” he forces it out, because it’s poison but it has to be true, “of course we are.”

“Right.” Clint sags, wipes a hand over his face, looks far too relieved for Phil’s pride to stand, “That’s good, then. I’ll just…” he points a thumb to the door and takes a few steps, then turns, “Phil, can we…I mean…let’s take some space for a day or so yeah? Just to, you know…reset.”

Jesus. 

What does Clint think Phil’s about to do? Chase him down? Fall at his feet and beg, beg for him to look at him, properly look at him and see how good they could be? To just _try_? Phil of course wants to do all of those things but if he has nothing else to cling to he does at least still have his dignity. So he straightens up and gives Clint a tiny smile. “Space sounds like a sensible idea to me.”

Clint nods and again there’s that look of strained relief that just twists the pain deeper, “Right. Okay then. See ya later…boss.”

He leaves, practically runs he’s that desperate to go, that desperate to get away. Phil watches, immobile, unable to even call out as Clint leaves. As he just goes, without looking back, and leaves Phil standing alone in the range. Alone, with his lips still kiss-swollen, his belt undone, his shirt a rucked-up mess and his broken heart littering the floor - shattered into a thousand, million, blood-red pieces. 

>>===>>


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies, thank you for bearing with me over the brief hiatus despite the ending of the last chapter.
> 
> We are nearing the end of this fic now, its looking like 2 or 3 chapters depending on how carried away I get....
> 
> AS always, all my love and thanks for your invaluable support and wonderful comments!
> 
> Enjoy x

>>===>>

Space. 

Space Clint had asked for, so space Phil gives him.

A whole two weeks of space. 

Two whole weeks of empty, lightless, desolate space, where he’s floating in the vacuum of avoiding Clint.

It’s …shit. 

But he does it, both because he’d been asked to and because he has to, because Phil just doesn’t see how he’d survive seeing Clint right now, how he’d react. He can’t rely on his dignity when he feels this…injured. So, avoidance it has to be.

The tactic means avoiding the rest of the team as well because he never knows when Clint will be with them but, to be perfectly honest Phil’s okay with that. He doesn’t actually want them to see him because he doesn’t want to have to pretend to those he cares about that he’s alright when he’s not. Because chances are they would see right through him and how could he explain? He couldn’t. And then of course any of them might say something to Clint, mention to him how rough Phil looks. And Phil can neither put that burden on Clint nor face the further blow to his pride.

Rejection was bad enough, he doesn’t want sympathy.

Mercifully and miraculously they’re not called out to avenge so Phil is able to keep himself to himself. He eats in his rooms, watches TV in his rooms, goes back to SHIELD for the gym facilities. He also works out of SHIELD, sends the Avengers a bogus memo that he has things to clear out of his old office and that they can reach him there if they need him and basically lives between his rooms and the headquarters. It’s easier at SHIELD, nobody there really expects him to be anything except ‘Agent Coulson’ especially given most of those who know the man under the suit, May, Jasper, Hand, his oldest friends, are all out leading assignments of their own. Even Director Fury is busy so there’s nobody to see through his carefully-maintained ‘business as usual, senior Agent on the case, everything is fine’ persona. 

Everything, of course, is not fine.

In reality Phil wakes every day with the memory of Clint’s face, the face that had been so obviously been terrified that Phil might start talking ‘feelings’, hanging in the forefront of his mind. He opens his eyes to the image of how Clint had almost run out of the range, how he’d been that desperate to get away. First thing every morning Phil greets the sun and that inescapable picture. It hurts. He waits for the sting to go out of it, even just a bit, but it doesn’t. It stings and it aches and it hurts and he hauls around the pain, the loss, like a lump of hot lead in his chest and sometimes he just wants to curl up into a tiny ball and howl, wail at the unfairness of it all.

But he’s a grown up so he doesn’t. He sucks it up and carries on and works and just hides away telling himself every day that it’s just for that little bit longer and drags his lead round with him every step and it all works perfectly well as a system thank you very much until Natasha. 

Because of course, Natasha.

Phil’s just emerging from the elevator after another day at SHIELD, coming home late enough that he isn’t expecting to see any one, even going as far as taking the public elevators and not the private ones, and there she is. Sitting on one of the padded benches that dot the Tower’s corridors, reading on her StarkPad and obviously waiting for him. She looks up as the elevator doors open, stows the Pad somewhere on her person (Phil has never quite figured out how she does that, in uniform or out of it) and smiles gently.

“Phil, long time no see.”

Phil grimaces, fronts out the veiled accusation, “Yes, sorry. It’s been busy back at Headquarters, you know how it is. I leave for five minutes and the paperwork goes to hell…”

“You’ll wear yourself out.”

She says it with concern and Phil latches onto the excuse happily and forces a yawn, “I know, I was just heading to bed actually...”

“Oh, good. I was going your way myself. I’ll walk with you.” She slides her arm through his so that they’re linking elbows and though Phil wants to protest that the elevators to the residential floors are the other way it seems he has no choice but to follow her.

Nat talks a little as they walk, catching up on some SHIELD gossip and Phil starts to feel a bit easier. He must be doing well at concealing his feelings because she hasn’t said a word. Maybe he can get back to his normal routine again, stop hiding and return to normal life…abruptly his stomach lurches yet again at the thought of seeing Clint in that normal life and…no. Okay, maybe another week ‘at SHIELD’ would be wiser…

“Phil.” Natasha’s voice cuts through his thoughts, “Earth to Coulson, come in Coulson, do you read me?”

“What? Sorry.”

She shakes her head, sighs, “You’re working too hard Phil. You need a rest. Clear your head a bit.”

“Well, I was going to bed,” Phil protests, “before this trek you apparently decided we should go on.” looking round he realises they’re nowhere near the residential floors, “Nat, where are we?”

She’s ignores his question, “I didn’t say you needed sleep, I said you need a rest. Something else to think about. You should give yourself some head room. Watch a film. Read a book. Something like that.”

“I’m not sure…”

She ignores him. “I am. Here would be a nice place to sit and read for a while, don’t you think?” Phil looks and they’re arrived at the door to a tiny observation-type room, nothing but big cushions, a food vender and huge windows giving amazing views out over the city lights. It looks very cosy. Despite the strangeness of this conversation, he likes it.

“I didn’t even know this was here.”

Nat smiles. “So, now you know all my secrets.” 

“I doubt that.” Phil smiles back, because he’s missed her too.

This time she laughs, “Alright, perhaps not _all_ my secrets. But this is where I like to come to read. You’ll like it too.”

Phil has no idea what she’s getting at. “Natasha, I don’t have anything _to_ read, maybe another time.” he grumbles because he really is tired, he’s been tired for two weeks, and all this crypticness is starting to get to him, “I know that this is here now. I’ll come back.” he offers, hoping that that will work. 

Please let that work.

It doesn’t.

“Don’t worry,” she says, and her smile is dangerously bright, “I can solve that too. Here.” She pulls out her StarkPad again and opens it before she passes it over. Phil takes one look at the webpage already loaded and feels suddenly queasy. He recognises it from Tony’s projections on that fatal morning, it’s the Archive. A sick suspicion creeps over him and he swipes quickly down the page and yes, suspicion confirmed. She’s loaded a fanwork for him. A DeadDescript story. Thousands of words of a story about him and Clint but not about him and Clint and, why would he…why would _she_ … it’s not….he _can’t_. Hands suddenly shaking, he pushes the pad back.

“Natasha,” he’s ashamed to hear the brokenness in his whisper, “no.”

Instead of taking it back she folds his fingers over the pad and uses it to lead him into the room and sit him on one of the huge cushion chairs. It’s so bizarre, so unexpected, Phil honestly thinks he might be having an out of body experience. He can’t feel his feet.

“Nat, I can’t. I don’t want…”

Nat stares him down. “You do Phil, trust me, you do. Would I steer you wrong?” Instinct and experience tell Phil that she wouldn’t but then…what can she possibly be up to? Apparently though there aren’t going to be any answers because Natasha’s walking out of the door already and he can’t quite make his legs follow, the StarkPad pinning him down like a tonne of stone in his lap, “Stay as long as you want. I’ve keyed the door for privacy so nobody will come in. Just…read. Enjoy.” She gives him a gentle nod as the door closes, “You might learn something.”

He won’t, because he’s not going to read it.

Phil glares at the door and then at the StarkPad as if it might rear up and bite him.

He’s not going to read it.

Of course he isn’t going to read it. He isn’t. Why would he torture himself reading something about the very thing he’s been working so hard not to think about, something so near the knuckle? He won’t. He absolutely won’t. The idea is so ridiculously ludicrous that he can scarcely believe that Nat thought….fuck. 

He’s already turning the StarkPad back on isn’t he?

>>===>>

The story is…okay. 

Good even. It flows well, the dialogue is interesting enough and it’s familiar territory. Preparing for a mission, even if these are superhero characters rather than actual Agents on an op, is something Phil knows inside out and apparently so does the writer because the scene is pretty accurate. Against his will Phil finds himself relaxing into the story, even enjoying elements of it. 

Despite what he’d feared, there doesn’t seem to be any heavy romance going on. It’s largely written from DeadCentre’s perspective and predictably the character has looked at NonDescript’s ass a few times and then spent a few lines thinking about how well they work together, and they do work well together, even from his informed perspective Phil can see that. They’re slick, quick, getting done what needs doing with minimal fuss. It’s a kind of teamwork he knows well. There’s also some musing about what good friends they are, and apparently they are good friends - Phil knows that kind of banter and backchat too. It’s all achingly familiar. Outside that there’s a few ribald jokes, a few suggestions that DeadCentre would think about their relationship being more in different circumstances which do sting at him a little but nothing _major_. Certainly nothing _racy_. So there’s nothing to get disturbed about. As the fictional mission starts Phil even wonders why he was making such a fuss, why Natasha was making such a fuss as to shut him in here. It’s not his usual choice of reading material, but it’s…fine. It’s _fiction_. It’s fine. 

Night has really kicked in now and even the city has turned out some lights but Phil finds he’s not as tired as he was. He might as well finish it. So he stands, stretches, dials himself a cup of mocha from the vender that’s good enough to confirm, if he had any doubts, that this is indeed Nat’s hiding place and sits back to pick up the story again.

He’s proud of how stable he feels. Perhaps Nat was right about relaxing. 

It’s not until a few more paragraphs in that he starts to get prickles of recognition running down his arms. At first, he wants to dismiss it as nothing. He just recognises the format, surely. He’s been on a hundred ops just like this one’s written so of course it feels familiar. However, the more he reads, the stronger the prickles get and the harder that sense of deja-vu hits until finally the second informant who was meant to be leading the heroes around gets killed and Redback gets winged so that the rest of the team have to scramble to escape and the penny finally plummets.

Phil’s coffee spills to the floor, the stain spreading unheeded.

No.

It can’t be.

He scans back in the story, re-reads a few lines here and there trying to tell himself that it _can’t_ be.

It can’t be, but it is.

Morocco. 

This story is fucking _Morocco_. Sure, it’s not set there, and the names are all different and the mission objective isn’t the same because it’s a search and rescue not an infiltration and the details are all swapped about but nevertheless it’s absolutely Morocco, the shitty assignment Strike Team Delta had taken on and failed so spectacularly at all that time ago, the one where the informants had died and Natasha had been wounded. It is. There’s enough details that Phil knows that he’s right, it can’t be anything else. Morocco. That’s why the dialogue seems so familiar, the plot so recognisable, because he’s _lived_ it. How…? Suddenly the world sways, slanting away from him and he has to breathe deep to stay in his chair, because while he’d written reports about the shitty mess of a thing the op had turned into, most of the details he’s reading here hadn’t _been_ in those reports, and there’s only one other person who had been there and been conscious enough for the entire thing that they’d be able to replicate it like this and….no. 

No, please, no.

Phil swipes back up to the beginning of the story like a man possessed. There must be an author’s name, so where is it, where the fuck is it…ah. There. Right under the stupid title ( _‘This Is Not How It Usually Goes’ for fuck’s sake_ ) in tiny letters there’s a bloody stupid penname and he already can guess, no, he _knows_ in his gut what it will be, but there it is anyway in black and white…

‘ _Because Boomerangs_ ’

Written by ‘ _Because Boomerangs_.”

And that’s that. Because the thing is, Phil knows that phrase. He’s only heard it a handful of times, usually to justify truly stupid choices of experimental weaponry, but if it’s true that there’s only one person who could write this story then it’s equally true that there’s only one person who uses that phrase and both of those people just happen to be _**Clint** goddamned **Barton** _. 

Phil’s first reaction is horror. 

And then rage. 

A pure, incandescent, lighting powerful _rage_ that rips through him until he wants to roar until his chest bursts, to smash down walls and decimate the city because _**how dare he?** _

How _fucking_ dare he?

This story is _Morocco_ and after Morocco comes _**after** _ \- when he and Clint had shared what Phil’s always thought of as one of the most incredible and intimate nights of his entire fucking life; _**after** _ \- when he’d had some of the most amazing sex and felt the one of the tightest connections of his whole damn existence; _**after** _\- the night which has bled over into _**now**_ and indelibly stained every single moment of Phil’s life in between….and now it’s on the internet?

Now it’s written down on the internet and there for anyone to read?

_HOW FUCKING DARE HE?_

Phil can’t breathe, he can’t see, he wants to find Clint and throttle him, to slam him up against a wall and _demand_ to know what he was thinki….

Then, just at it reaches its peak the rage bursts like a bubble and Phil feels himself fill up instead with mortification and heavy sadness because, god. How wrong had he been? Here he is, carrying that memory around like a chunk of hoarded gold when all the while it had meant so very little to Clint that he’d been willing to write it all out and share it with anyone who cared to click and for what? Internet points?

Phil has never felt like such a fool.

Of course he’d known that Clint was never on the same level of feelings as he’d reached but he’d at least thought they’d respected each other, valued what they shared. He’d honestly never believed otherwise but now….jesus. It’s all ashes isn’t it?

He sits for a long time. Minutes, hours, he honestly couldn’t say, just letting that knowledge wash over him, quietly letting go of every single ignored, untended but still very much there fantasy of his happy ending which is never going to come.

Lights blink on and off around the city, planes pass overhead and Phil just…sits.

Eventually the sky starts to lighten and that rouses him from his trance. He blinks, his face feels odd, tight, and when he scruffs a hand across his cheek it comes away wet. 

Fuck. 

Well. 

This will never do. 

There’s no point in wallowing. It’s not like he’s lost anything that was his anyway. He stands and catches Natasha’s StarkPad reflexively when it slides off his lap, grabs it before it has time to hit the floor and then for one petty moment wishes that he hadn’t. If only he could smash this damn thing and have it be gone, Clint’s ‘story’, but he can’t because it’s out there on the Net and anyone can read it, _oh god_ , Phil cringes, what if _Tony_ reads it…no, he can't because he’d realise, he’s too smart to not realise something and he could have JARVIS trace the author and what if…. cold panic threatens to seize Phil’s breath again. What should he do?

Abruptly his agent brain clicks in, years of training coming to the fore to save him and that brings an answer. What he should do is what he always does. Gather intel, scout the field, prepare, see how bad the situation really is and then plan - work from facts and not assumptions. Which in this case means reading the story to the end and finding out what Clint wrote. How he really feels. It is not a happy thought but Phil can hardly argue with years of experience and his own logic. Slowly, painfully, he settles back and thumbs the StarkPad back on.

The story continues as he would expect, now that he’s realised what it is. The team make it back to their escape vehicle, in this a ludicrous in-canon submarine-type thing, then they get Redback to medical and gradually all drift back to their various positions. Eventually only DeadCentre and NonDescript are left before the doctor sends them away too. Phil reads, heart in his mouth, as they move together down the corridor, ostensibly towards their separate rooms but somehow ending up in the same room anyway, slowly removing their outer tac gear and collapsing on the bed. The way Clint’s described it is exactly how he remembers it. That natural inevitability. The sense of ‘where else would I be?’ that pervaded the room. The high, fuzzy tightness of mission come-down and adrenaline that was so hard to shake off. The surety and solidity of knowing he had someone there to keep him together, someone who needed him to hold them together too. It’s all written down perfectly, beautifully and Phil wants to cry. Again. Eventually they’re both lying there in the dark, saying nothing and Phil knows, he knows exactly what happens next. He braces himself.

_‘…finally the mission felt like it was really over. Lying there in the quiet he let his DeadCentre mask drop away and let himself be Loxley again. It should have been a relief but the problem was once Loxley came back, so did all Loxley’s feelings. As DeadCentre he could hold them back, push them away so they didn’t compromise his work but now there was nothing he could do to deny them. Just inches away NonDescript was breathing quietly, no, Jon was breathing quietly and the sound filled Loxley’s whole world. His chest felt tight and he had to, had to do something or he would explode. Slowly he turned on his side to look at Jon, only to see Jon looking back at him. He reached out…’_

Phil takes a deep breath because, alright, here it comes…

_‘…and took Jon’s hand, holding it while his heart tried to hammer out of his chest. When Jon blinked in shock Loxley just squeezed tighter and he knew now was the time when he had to say everything he’d always left unsaid, unacknowledged pretty much even to himself, he had to say it now or live the rest of his life knowing that he was a coward…_

_He started, quietly, “Jon, I have to tell you something. Today was bad…”_

_Jon wrinkled his nose, “It was. Fucking intel. But she’ll be alright you know, and we made it ou…”_

_“No, listen,” Loxley interrupted, “It was bad, but do you know the worst bit? The worst bit was that I thought I was going to die, or you were, and that it was going to happen without me ever taking the chance to tell you…”_

_Jon’s grip on his hand tightened, “Tell me what?”_

_Loxley decided to go for the simplest words, “That I‘m nuts about you. Always have been. Not just as my friend but as…more. If you’d want that… me.”_

_“Lox…” Jon breathed softly, “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear that. How much I’ve wanted to say it myself, because I…”’_

What? 

Fucking _**what?**_

Phil blinks, heart suddenly pounding. That’s not, that’s not how it… He must have read it wrong, that must be it. He _must_ have missed a paragraph or something because that’s not at all…

He skips back up a few paragraphs and re-reads but of course the events stay the same. Medical, dismissal, going to the room, getting to the bed, the slow turn, it’s all what he was expecting but then, this heartfelt declaration of love, where has that come from? The text pulls his eyes like a magnet and he reads on to the end but it’s just more of the same, they confess that they’ve been crazy about each other for ages and both been too afraid to say anything, they laugh, they kiss and then…there’s cuddling.

Just cuddling and nothing else, nothing like what he remembers, none of the frantic desperation or demand that had actually happened, just an overwhelming sense of sweetness and blissful satisfaction for the two characters. It’s a fairytale. Clint’s completely re-written the story and given it a new ending.

Phil’s suddenly sweating, skin prickling all over, his hands are shaking and the text swims in front of his eyes. He scrubs at them frantically, trying to get some clarity back, because _why_? 

Fuck, that hurts. It really hurts, his chest squeezes and he can’t breathe.

Why would he do that?

Why would Clint _do_ that?

Suddenly he has to get up, has to move, so he stands and paces round the little room on shaking legs, too wired to be sitting anymore, too uneasy, too unsettled, too…everything. He wants to jump up and down, to scream, to laugh and turn cartwheels…and he bites his lip because why does he want that? Why would he want that when Clint’s story hurts, causes actual physical pain because that’s _not_ how it happened…

Phil paces faster, has to, because something is wriggling under his skin, something is working its way out of the deepest, darkest depths of his subconscious, a thought too ridiculous to be believed but nevertheless too insistent to be ignored…

He thinks back to that morning weeks ago when Tony first brought up the concept of fanfiction. He’s not totally sure why but it feels important, like there’s something he missed there, something he should have seen outside his own embarrassment. What is it? What? Phil scrapes his hand through his hair and keeps pacing, willing himself to see whatever it is he can’t see, to make the connections he needs… Tony had been talking about types of stories, about re-writing canon, changing how events happened and Clint had said, he’d said… _“I guess I can see the appeal in that. I got some wishes I could stand to see fulfilled._ ”

Suddenly Phil sees it and seconds later the realisation buckles his knees and almost has him on his ass, he only just catches himself a little before he hits the floor heavily with his mouth hanging open.

Oh holy motherfucking god.

What if that’s it?

What if Clint has written all this and changed the ending so much because it hurts him too, because _that’s how Clint wishes it had gone?_ What if there’s no sex here, no mortification, because it isn’t Phil Clint’s story is laying bare, but Clint himself?

The room slides crazily away and Phil has to put his head between his knees and breathe deep to stop himself sliding with it. He scrolls back to the title of the story – _‘This Is Not How It Usually Goes_ ’ had been right, but what if that’s how Clint had wanted it to go?

What if Clint imagined all that sweetness because that’s what he wanted to have…or…oh shit, _wants_ to have? 

Oh god. 

What if that’s what he wants to have? What he _wants to have with Phil?_

It makes absolute sense but it makes absolutely no sense.

The very idea of it is a shot of liquid sunshine, pure starlight even that warms Phil head to toe but also makes him want to vomit. His teeth chatter, he’s so cold, goosebumps spring up on every inch of his skin, he wants to believe it, god he wants to believe it so much he can feel the longing in his _bones_ but he can’t…

He needs more clues. Are there more clues?

Scrambling across the floor, Phil kneels to grab and turn the Pad back on, finds the author name again and clicks on it because if there are any more…. Fuck. There is. One more work by _BecauseBoomerangs._ He scans it frantically, ripping through the words, searching for light at the end of the tunnel. Its just a couple of chapters, each only a few hundred words of everyday nothingness – DeadDescript at breakfast, DeadDescript after a mission, a Castigators team cards night where DeadDescript join in a game of….

Phil wobbles back onto his ass again.

Uno. Where they play Uno as a team against the rest and kick all their asses. 

He swipes to the next - DeadDescript visit a museum. They’re just vignettes, just little, stupid moments in a life but all moments Phil’s seen before, lived before, and all of them subtly changed. At this breakfast Jon and Loxley pour coffee and smile and kiss before one of them leaves for work. The cards night sees them teaming up, feet secretly tangled under the table and the museum visit is as full of laughs and banter as the real one had been but on the page they hold hands as they enjoy the exhibits, giggle when they slip behind a large statue of Eros to kiss. All the moments are changed just that tiny bit, all of them filled with that sweetness, that mutual affection, that…love.

He puts his head in his hands, back bowing under the weight of sudden and painful hope, a hope he’s never allowed himself and is completely terrified to feel. But…Surely Clint wouldn’t have written these things, spent time thinking about these things if he didn’t….

Is it possible he’s been the most oblivious man on the face of the earth? Can it be possible? Has he been trying so hard to hide his own feelings that he’s missed Clint’s? Does Clint want to be with him, actually be with him, properly?

He has to know. He absolutely has to know _right now_

He’s halfway to the door when he thinks to check the time and _damn_. How has that happened? Shit. He can’t crash into Clint’s place this early in the morning, he can’t yank him out of sleep and talk at him half-awake, not when it’s something this important. For a second Phil wants to scream with frustration, but then he reins it in, takes a breath and thinks. Maybe an hour’s grace isn’t so awful to have. Quickly taking stock he realises that he himself is a shattered mess, all wrinkled shirt and red eyes and no plan, no clue what words he’d use anyway because ‘do you love me?’ wouldn’t exactly be a subtle or clever way to go about asking the most terrifying question of his life…Maybe he should go quickly home, throw water on his face, change and while he’s there work out how to even broach the subject with Clint without either sending him bolting for the vents or himself passing out on the carpet. 

How he’s going to ask the most _important_ question of his entire life. 

Phil pushes himself upright to stand and wobbles, his legs as steady as a newborn colt’s. It is very, very early in the morning so yes, wash, change, food, plan his words, approach Clint at a civilised hour. Surely that’s the most sensible plan. Apparently he’s possibly been an idiot for a while, he can be sensible now even though his nerves are absolutely _singing_ that he should just _go_ …he can be sensible. Really he can.

“JARVIS,” he calls, tucking the StarkPad under his arm, “what does Clint have on his schedule for today?” 

The answer comes back right away in JARVIS’ pleasant tones, “Agent Barton’s schedule for today is blank Agent Coulson. He has no appointments that I am aware of.”

Damn. Typical, but not helpful. Fine. Start a bit easier.

“Alright. Can you tell me where he is now?”

“Agent Barton,” JARVIS says and if it’s possible for an AI to sound just a tiny bit gleeful then JARVIS definitely does, “is approximately twenty feet from your current location. Indeed, I believe he is about to try the door. Would you like me to open it for him?”

Fuck.

>>===>>


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you, my sincere apologies for how long this has taken, I got a bit wrapped up in writing chapter 9 and I guess I just...forgot that this needed posting too! Sorry for the wait.
> 
> As always, I love you for your comments!
> 
> Enjoy x

>>===>>

As it turns out, Clint doesn’t need JARVIS to open the door because in fact he’s entering a code and stepping through before Phil has even had time to stop doing his ‘rabbit-in-headlights’ impression.

“Nat,” he says as he comes into the little room, “what the fuck am I doing here? This had better be good, because I haven’t even been to bed yet and your message made, like, no sens….oh.” he stops dead as soon as he sees who is actually waiting for him, shock flashing across his face, “Oh. Hey, Phil.”

He looks…tired. Gorgeous as always, dishevelledly handsome as always, but tired. There are dark smudges under his eyes, the beginning of a scruffy beard shadows his chin, his hair’s wet and sticking up at crazy angles likes he’s just come from the shower and his t-shirt is a worn, faded and ripped purple thing that Phil’s fairly sure Nat has tried to throw away at least once. He’s beautiful. And very, very wary. The closed body language, the caution in his eyes cracks across Phil’s heart and takes away his voice, mutes the greeting he’d just about summoned and leaves him staring in silence.

He’s very aware that he must look something like a lunatic with his red-rimmed eyes gone wide, his tear-streaked face, standing all alone in a tiny room in what must be obviously yesterday’s clothes with his spine held tight and holding a StarkPad white-knuckled enough that the casing really ought to shatter. For a second Phil wishes it would - anything, anything at all to provide a distraction. He tries to force himself to loosen, to look more bloody normal as Clint’s hesitant gaze flicks over him.

Clint frowns, scrubs a hand across the back of his neck that way he does and it’s such a vulnerable, defensive gesture that Phil’s arms literally, physically ache for him. “I…sorry…,” he says, “I didn’t know you were in here, Nat called me and….never mind. Must have misheard. Didn’t mean to disturb.”

He turns to go back out and Phil, unprepared as he is, unready as he is can’t let him leave, not again. “You’re not disturbing me.” he blurts, as shocked as Clint at the sound of his voice.

“No?” Clint turns back.

“No, I was just…” oh god, is he really going to do this? Is he? He is, he’s not a coward and one minute more without knowing might stop his heart, “…just reading.”

Clint’s mouth quirks up into a tiny grimace, “Hope it’s not work, not at this time of night.”

Phil takes a deep breath, oh god let him be right, please, please let him be right, because there’s no turning back now, “No, it was just…” he holds out the StarkPad and thumbs it back on again, turns it to show Clint the title page and please, please, _please_ let him be right, he has to be, he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he’s not, “this.”

They’re a fair way apart but Hawkeye is Hawkeye after all. Clint focuses on the screen for a second and then blanches, all the blood draining from his face. “Shit.” he sways on his feet, “Oh god,” he whispers, “how did you even….oh. Nat.”

Phil nods.

“Aw, Nat, no...” Clint groans, low and lost, and when he looks at Phil his eyes are almost pained, “I’m sorry Phil, that’s…I mean it’s just…me…letting off steam or … it doesn’t…I don’t want you to feel like…..shit...” his voice takes on a pleading edge, tongue almost tripping in his haste to get an explanation out, he bows his head, “you weren’t supposed to see that. I mean, nobody was really supposed to but especially you, so I’m…Aw, _fuck_.” His whole body sags, “Did you… did you read…all of it?”

Phil nods again but Clint looks so…embarrassed? Horrified? Disgusted? Phil can’t read him properly, which is so fucking ironic it almost makes him want to laugh, except how _stupid_ would that be?-his heart is pounding so hard, he can’t stop staring at Clint and yet he can only force out two words, “I did.”

“Fuck.” Clint curses again, closing his eyes briefly “Fuck, fuck _fuck_. Right.” He takes a breath and there’s something awful in the way he straightens up as if building a wall between them with his very spine, “Right. Okay, that’s…I’m sorry you had to waste your time on it Phil. But. I’m just…gonna go. I’m gonna go. Somewhere, far, far a-fucking-way. Jesus. So…yeah.” He turns for the door yet again and he really is going, he really is and Phil might never get him back again so it’s now, it has to be, has to be now,

“Clint…”

“No,” he throws out a hand but the gesture doesn’t have any force, not really, “Phil, don’t, it’s alright…I’m just….You don’t have to…I’m…I’m…”

“Clint, stop!” Phil doesn’t mean to shout, to snap, he doesn’t and the way Clint _flinches_ , god forgive him. But he has to interrupt, he _has_ to because he can’t stand one second longer, that awful tension to Clint’s shoulders, the roiling agony in his own gut. He breathes again and prepares to jump off the cliff, “Clint, that day, on the range. You know …you said…you said that we were fuckbuddies, and you said that things like that don’t work if feelings get involved…”

“Phil…” the way his name falls from Clint’s lips is strained and painful.

“No, please, let me say this.” Because if he doesn’t now then he may never ever get the opportunity, not to mention the courage again, “Because you did say that, and when you said it, I thought…Damn, I thought that you were talking about _me_ , about…my feelings…” Clint’s head snaps up, and there’s such a sudden wild light in his eyes, such astonished hope that Phil has to take a step back, because he can’t stop, not yet, “I thought you meant, because I feel… but now… I mean… I read this and… I’m not sure, I thought , maybe…” 

Oh for god’s sake he has to do it, has to do it right now, he’s making no sense at all but Clint’s looking at him as if he knows the meaning of life and he has to…

“Clint, do you want to _date_ me?”

Weak. That’s so weak compared to what he wanted to say, what he should say, but it’ll have to do because he’s literally run out of words, his heart is hammering so hard that it’s broken them all to pieces.

Clint, pale, swallows so heavily that the click of his throat is audible even from across the room and his voice, when he finally manages to speak is a tiny, cautious thing,

“Is…that…something you’d…want?”

It totally throws the ball back into Phil’s court. Which is fair, and more than fair and fuck this, Phil’s had enough of hiding and pretending and not saying what he means. Somewhere, deep in the pile of shattered words he finds the only ones left intact and after all, they’re really the only ones that matter.

He has to say them. 

He’s fucking terrified.

“Not particularly,” he forces out. Clint’s shoulders slump back a little, the light in his eyes dimming and no, absolutely not, Phil is not having that. He sighs, all pretence, all defence dropping out of him and finally exposing his very heart, “Honestly, Clint? I just want to love you. Because I do.”

For the longest seconds that time has ever been forced to record, absolutely nothing happens. Then Clint cocks his head like he can’t believe what he’s heard, and huffs out hard and hoarse, “ _What?_ ”

“I love you.” It’s easier to say it the second time, “I am in love with you.”

Clint blinks and staggers over to the nearest low chair, falling into it heavily. Head in his hands he demands, “Since _when?_ ”

Slowly, carefully, Phil walks over to where Clint’s slumped and kneels by his chair. The broken words are gluing themselves back together with a faintly re-growing hope - because Clint hasn’t said _no_ has he?- and now they’re clamouring to get out, to be said. but Clint looks one step away from fainting and Phil holds back for fear of overwhelming them both. He answers, simply instead, honestly, “I don’t know. Since a long time ago. Since always maybe. I don’t know how long. But I’ve known I love you, realised it I mean… since Loki.”

“ _Shit_.” Clint’s curse is heavy and heartfelt enough to be blood-tinged, “ _Why?_ ”

Phil frowns, because this is a question he didn’t expect but honestly has a lot of answers for if Clint really needs them, “Why…do I love you?”

Clint scowls, “No, for fuck’s… not…Jesus Phil, _why didn’t you say something?”_

Well that’s the million dollar question isn’t it?

Phil has nothing to offer except more of the truth, even though he knows how ridiculous it makes him sound, “I was afraid. Afraid that it - I - wasn’t what you wanted and afraid that that wasn’t where we were and afraid that if I said anything I would lose you and what we had and…just…afraid.” He breathes in hard and sighs it out, “But the truth is Clint, suddenly not telling you how I feel seems a lot more scary if I don’t then…Clint?” he breaks off because suddenly Clint’s slumped forward even further, head almost to his knees and his shoulders are heaving soundlessly, his whole body lurching in the chair, “Jesus, Clint, are you alright?”

There’s a long silence and then the noise Clint makes is a wet, heaving, sob of a sound and it halts Phil’s blood in his very veins. Oh god in heaven, this was a bad idea. What has he done? What the fuck has he done? 

“Clint…?” very cautiously he puts a hand by Clint’s knee, “I’m sorry if…Clint?”

“Oh, oh, ohhh shit Phil, _shit_ …” slowly Clint rolls his shoulders and raises his head, his eyes are wet, there are tears threatening to spill but he’s not quite crying, it sounds more like, laughing? “Phil, you’re an _idiot_. A _fucking_ idiot. You’re actually sitting there and telling me that you love me? Me? That the fuckbuddy thing wasn’t quite what you wanted but you were too afraid of losing it to ask for what you did want? That? That’s what you’re actually telling me?”

All Phil can do is nod, dumbly, because put that way it sounds…urgh. Finally, he ventures, “Yes?” 

“You’re an idiot.” Clint’s voice softens, almost a chuckle and he’s definitely smiling now. It’s a bit wobbly, a bit damp round the edges, but that’s definitely a smile, “But, to be fair that’s exactly the same shit I’ve been telling myself every fucking day for longer than I’d like to admit. So I guess I’m an idiot too, right?”

It takes a second for the words to register and when they do there’s a sudden burning in Phil’s chest as if he’s swallowed the sun, as if all his words are alight, burning with the promise of possibility. He looks up from his position at Clint’s knee, looks up at his scruffy, blotchy, beautiful face and that little half smile and his hand on Clint’s leg tightens, just a little, instinctively, because he has to hold on to something,

“Clint…” he asks very carefully, “Are you saying…”

“Yes,” Clint laughs, the smile finally becoming that trademark Barton beam that Phil has always adored, dazzling in its brilliance, “Yes, I am saying.” he picks up Phil’s hand and squeezes it, “I love you right back Phil. Fuck, I’m mad about you.”

“Oh.” The burning in Phil’s chest gets tighter and hotter, almost violently so, “ _Oh_. That’s…” he stumbles, because there’s not really a word for an idea that immense is there? “That’s…”

Clint just squeezes his hand again, still grinning, “Yeah, I think it just might be.”

“I honestly thought you didn’t…” Phil trails off in the face of that power of that smile

Which just gets wider, “I thought you didn’t.”

“Between us, I thought it was just….”

Clint scoffs. “It was never ‘just’ anything was it? Not really. But I know what you mean. Fuck, do I.” he meets Phil’s eyes full-on, all blue and sparkle, “Like I said, idiots, yeah?”

Phil searches Clint’s face. He _knows_ that face. Intimately and in detail and in a thousand different situations. He’s seen him scowl under fire, grin in victory and go stony under pressure. Phil’s seen Clint drunk, relaxed, grieving, sick, focussed and ready to kill. Fuck, he’s seen the way his eyes go dark and gorgeous when he’s turned on, the beautiful lines of his O face. And he’s seen him undercover, working a mark, working the room, withholding information, even when he’s giving ‘selective’ mission reports. So. Phil knows exactly what Clint looks like when he’s lying. Or unsure.

And this is not that. 

That smile is neither of those things.

Which means it’s….real. 

It’s _real_.

Something in Phil’s chest unlocks with a click he can almost feel, a cool rush, a blessing of belief that soothes the burn, wiping it away. 

It’s real. 

Phil nods, light-headed, almost dizzy with relief and incredulity and joy, “Idiots.” he agrees, and his mouth tips up into a grin to match Clint’s, “Fucking idiots.”

The air all around them is boiling with so many emotions it’s practically fizzing. 

All of a sudden there’s absolutely too much space between them so Phil kneels up a little and uses Clint’s grip on his hand to pull him down closer until their faces are level, “Just to warn you,” he says, it’s not really a warning, more a forecast, “unless you tell me not to I am absolutely going to kiss you right now.”

Clint lifts his free hand and mimes fitting a padlock to his mouth, throwing away the key, “My lips are sealed.”

“Oh,” Phil murmurs, sliding _his_ free hand around the back of Clint’s neck, “I’ll have to see about that…”

He brings Clint down the last few inches until, finally, finally, their lips meet. It’s not chaste, not even slightly, not with the way Clint’s lips slide against his own and open for him, not with the way he flicks his tongue against Phil’s with tiny little licks, but it’s not heated either, its just…so sweet. Sweet and soft and long and lovely and they whimper and murmur into each other’s mouths. Phil isn’t sure who is making which noise and it doesn’t matter in the slightest, all that matters is the taste of Clint in his mouth and the heat of him under his hands. 

It’s not their first kiss, not by a long shot but it feels like it just might be the first of something wonderful.

It’s long, long minutes before the crick growing in Phil’s neck means that he has to break away and when he does, Clint’s staring at him intensely, softly, lips twitching like he’s going to say something meaningful and profound. But, when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is an immense yawn that stretches so wide that Clint legitimately looks like he has a flip-top head. As soon as it passes he slams his mouth shut, eyebrows going up and cheeks flushing sweet pink,

“Aw, jeez, sorry Phil, sorry, I’ve just not been to bed yet and…”

“Me neither,” Phil’s yawn answers Clint’s even as he speaks and covers his mouth quickly, “Haven’t really been sleeping well.” 

Clint huffs wryly, nods, “Yeah, I know how that is.”

Around them the tower is coming to life, the small noises Phil hadn’t really noticed through the momentousness of the previous moments suddenly sounding louder and more intrusive as the offices and labs and coffee shops filling the lower levels start to bustle with early morning traffic. Inwardly, he recoils because he’s not ready to face the real world yet, not ready for this bubble of private sweetness to burst, not at all. So he stands and extends a hand down to Clint, “Come to bed with me?” 

Clint’s head jerks, tilts in surprise, “Phil…”

“Not for _that_ ,” he clarifies, because as mind-blowing as _that_ is, he has other priorities right now, “just…we’re both done in and I’d rather not let you out of my sight quite yet, so…I thought…if you don’t mind…we could get some sleep together?”

Reaching up, Clint takes the offered hand and stands as well, “I don’t. I don’t mind that at all. Sounds awesome.”

Phil pulls him in for a hug, mainly to hide the dopey smile blooming across his face, even though the matching one on Clint’s makes it clear that he’s not entirely successful. Softly he slides his hands up Clint’s back, drops a kiss onto his temple and smiles when Clint shivers, “Alright. Come on then.”

>>===>>

The short trip back to the elevator seems to take an age but mercifully they don’t bump into anyone. Phil’s glad about that, so glad, because even though they dropped hands when they stepped through the doorway he’s sure that he couldn’t hide his feelings right now even if he had an invisibility cloak. He’s glowing with happiness as bright as Tony’s arc reactor but he’s not ready to share it, not quite yet. It’s a relief to make it to the elevator and as the door slides shut behind them Phil wastes no time, “JARVIS, my floor please. Privacy travel, no stops. Quick as you can.”

“Certainly, Agent Coulson, no stops.” JARVIS’ answer isn’t even finished before the elevator begins moving and Phil’s sure it feels faster than usual.

Behind him, Clint chuckles and steps to put his hands lightly on Phil’s waist, “You got somewhere you want to be in a hurry Agent Coulson?” 

Tipping his head back, Phil kisses Clint’s jaw and smiles when he shivers again, “Absolutely. I’m taking Hawkeye to bed aren’t I?” He’s trying to be playful, seductive but it’s warped and ruined by an unexpected and huge yawn which comes from him this time and then Clint’s clever reply is drowned out by _his_ yawn, both of them a mess of tired exhilaration and the ragged remains of terror, a weary riot of ridiculous emotions and unspent adrenaline crashing through their veins. They catch each other’s eyes and then they’re both giggling and yawning and holding each other up. It’s not dignified or romantic or sexy in the least and it might very well be the best moment of Phil’s entire life. Eventually the elevator stops and they stumble out of it together and through Phil’s door, heading straight for the bedroom by unspoken agreement. Phil tosses Clint a set of soft sweats and a tee and uses the bathroom while Clint changes, puts on his own pyjamas while Clint takes his turn and then they’re sliding under the sheets and lying side by side.

Which is when things get…odd.

The reading room, the elevator, even Phil’s bedroom right up until this point, it’s all been so full of yawning and giggling and pyjamas and toothbrushes, incredulity and joy and that soft, zingy anticipation that there hasn’t been time to think...but now that they’re here in cool sheets and silence, Phil is sideswiped by the realisation that they’ve never done this before. Never gone to bed together deliberately, not to sleep, not to just be together and all of a sudden it’s like he doesn’t know where to put himself. Or _how_ to put himself. Like he doesn’t know how his body works or how it’s shaped, suddenly it’s all strange angles and hidden bones and he has no concept of how to be comfortable with himself, let alone comfortable with _Clint_. He can’t quite remember how to breathe. It’s ridiculous, it really is, he’s touched Clint a thousand times, a million, practised, heated and pleasurable times but his pulse is going fast enough and hard enough that surely the mattress should be shaking and still he can’t move. He just, can’t. Precise stillness and measured breathing let him know that somewhere on the other side of the vast arctic tundra that is his bed Clint is lying in exactly the same pose all silent and stiff and _shit_ , could it be that he’s regretting this already? They really haven’t done this before and maybe it’s too much too soon, maybe Clint didn’t really want….

No!

Shut _up_ , Phil. 

He’s not going let himself drown in assumptions and maybes and misunderstandings ever again. They’ve wasted enough time already.

_Get a grip._

Silently as possible Phil sucks in air to steady himself, lets it go in a carefully controlled breath and damn, he can’t manage that either because it actually whooshes out in an undignified and wobbly blast and his entire body shudders with the sheer tension of it. This time the mattress really does shake.

“Phil,” Clint’s throat works dryly, as if getting the words out is a struggle, “Please tell me that noise means that I’m not the only one waiting for the other shoe to drop here.”

“No,” Phil tells the ceiling, “not just you.”

Clint nods, Phil can feel the pillows move. “Good. For a minute there I thought I was the only one having a freak-out.”

“I keep thinking,” Phil admits, pushing the sentence out past teeth that badly want to grit and trap it inside, “that you’re going to want to leave.”

The chuckle Clint gives is a little, twisted, sad noise, “And I keep thinking you’re going to _want_ me to leave.”

“Never.” Phil blurts it without planning to but Clint’s surprised little huff of breath is enough to make him decide to roll with it, “For the record I never really wanted you to leave. Even when I didn’t really understand _why_ , I never wanted you to leave.” 

“And I never really wanted to go.” Clint sighs, sounding both sad and angry, “Fuck. The two of us, we’ve made a real bullshit mess of this haven’t we?”

Phil rolls over on his side to find Clint on his back with just his head turned, scowling but sad eyed. He hates it. So he smiles, brave as he can. “Yes. We have. But not so much that we can’t fix it if we want to. Even we have to go right back to the beginning and start again, we can do that.” He sticks out his right hand, awkward because he’s lying on it, but sincere, “Hi, I’m Phil Coulson. And I’m madly in love with you.”

That makes Clint chuckle again, for real this time, “What a lucky coincidence.” he says, and he smiles and takes Phil’s hand, squeezes it. “I’m Clint Barton. And I’m madly in love with _you_.”

Phil chuckles too and squeezes back. “That is lucky then. And we’ve always known how to work with lucky, haven’t we?” He rubs his thumb softly over Clint’s knuckles as Clint nods, “So we’ll work with it. And as for the rest, for the record and as far as I’m concerned, you never have to leave this bed again.”

“Might make Avenging a bit difficult.” Clint’s smile is getting back its sparkle, that wry twinkle Phil loves, “aliens and villains not being known for conveniently attacking us in our bedrooms.”

“Then screw Avenging,” Phil says and he pulls on Clint’s hand so that he has to roll over, keeps pulling until they’re face to face and almost touching, “screw it, and just stay here in bed all day and be my…” he cuts off, blushing as Clint’s eyebrow quirks.

“Be your what?” he grins, “your boy toy? Your kept man?”

“Mine.” Phil says simply, “Just be mine.”

Clint’s grin melts, softens at the edges even though it widens even further. “Pretty sure I am that already.”

“And I’m yours. And that’ll be enough.” he leans forward, kisses Clint softly on the corner of his mouth, speaks into the warmth of his skin, “Can we just agree that we’ve made some mistakes but that we want to do better, and it’s scary as hell but we’ll do it together?”

“Yes.” Clint’s eyes drift closed as he twists to move Phil’s kiss to his lips, claims another, soft and slow, “Yes.” he says again when it’s finished, “That. Please.”

“Anything.” Phil promises, and it’s the truest promise he’s ever made in his life because Clint could always have, has always had, anything and everything Phil has to give. “We’re good?”

Clint nods softly, “Actually, I think we’re on our way to great.” Suddenly he’s wriggling his way across the bed, closing the gap between them, “Now roll over, I am absolutely all in and I happen to know that you make a shockingly good pillow.”

Phil snorts at the sudden change in mood but goes where Clint gently pushes him, ending up on his back with Clint tucked up under his arm, his head pillowed on his chest and one leg hooked over Phil’s. It’s entirely possible that Phil’s heart might pop, it’s so fat with happiness. He’s finally holding and being held the way he was wishing for and it’s a bit too hot and Clint’s a bit too heavy and it’s absolutely perfect. Tightening his arm he pulls Clint even closer and sneaks a kiss into his hair. “Sleep well then sweetheart.”

“Y’too,” Clint snuffles into his shirt, already more than half gone, “I l’ve you.”

“You too.” Phil echoes, smiling. He settles himself back into the pillows and just lets himself float, drift off, soothed by the warmth of their bodies, by knowing that he can have this, that it’s not only allowed now, but asked for. It would boggle his mind if he had the left energy to be boggled. “JARVIS,” he whispers, “no calls except in case of an emergency - as defined by Steve _not_ Tony. No alarms. Do Not Disturb protocol active until further notice.”

“Absolutely, Agent Coulson. My pleasure.”

They're both asleep before JARVIS finishes speaking.

>>===>>


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, your reaction to the last chapter, I'm so, so happy.
> 
> We made it! Who wants several thousand words of redemptive smut and discussions between happy idiots? Yay, me too! Here you go. 
> 
> If you'd rather just have the discussion, skip to the second arrow break, otherwise, enjoy x

>>===>>

It might be the best night’s – day’s – sleep that Phil’s ever had. 

JARVIS’ projected clock shows that the morning’s already creeping towards midday when he starts to stir. He’s wonderfully warm and absolutely comfortable so at first he’s not sure what’s woken him up but then the mattress shifts again as Clint’s weight rolls off it and Phil listens as his feet pad away almost silently across the carpet. His gut instantly starts to twist, only to twist right back the other way with shame when he hears the bathroom door click closed. The series of muffled and oddly intimate sounds that start to drift through the soundproofing pour water on the cold fire of fear and put it out again but damn, it should never have started. Clint would never have run away from him again, not now and Phil knows that, he does, it’s just… Old habits die hard, but they really do have to die. Heart slowing, he huffs at himself reprovingly, squeezing a fist closed and whispering ‘Don’t be an idiot.”

“Shhhhhhh,” Clint’s come back into the room and he flops back into the bed, burrowing into Phil’s chest again and casually pulling Phil’s arm around himself like a blanket so that Phil’s fingers have to unclench until his palm rests flat on Clint’s side. He presses a kiss into Phil’s ribs, “We jus’ need more practise, s’all. Go t’sleep.” Clint’s warm and wonderful, soft and sleepy and most importantly, _here_ , so, what choice does Phil have? Smiling, he closes his eyes and does as he’s told.

>>===>>

It’s another hour or so before Phil wakes up again, this time with bathroom needs of his own. Clint has rolled off a little way across the bed so Phil slips out easily without waking him to do what needs doing. When he opens the door to make the return trip, the view almost takes his breath away.

Clint.

Clint Barton.

Is in his bed.

Clint Barton, the man he’s so utterly and indelibly in love with, is in his bed. And not just in his bed but more accurately and more amazingly, Clint is _still_ in his bed. Still there and so, so gorgeous. The covers are rucked down around his hips and he’s all curled up and spooning one of Phil’s pillows, wrapping his strong arms round it, his face just visible as he snuggles down. Phil has to smile because he’s adorable. And then Clint wriggles in his sleep and he’s all shifting muscles and stretching and woah, that’s…beautiful. Phil takes a second to offer a prayer of thanks to whichever gifted interior designer decided that white sheets were the only way to decorate his bedroom because the golden skin of Clint’s arms is a frankly stunning contrast to the starkness and the highlights of reflected sunshine thrown across the cheek not currently buried in the pillow could make angels weep. Phil swallows past the lump in his throat, totally unsure as to whether he wants to laugh or cry but knowing completely that he’s the luckiest man in the world. He’d thought vaguely while in the bathroom about getting up and presenting Clint with breakfast – brunch? lunch? – given that neither of them had really eaten the day before but, just looking at him, there’s absolutely no way that’s happening yet. The stomach may have needs but right now the rest of Phil is being pretty vocal in its need to get back to being as close to Clint as possible. Happily, Phil gives in to the demand and burrows back into under the covers, spooning up close. He bends his knees so that they match up and slot together with Clint’s, presses his chest to Clint’s back and lets one hand ghost his hip, their bodies touching their full length, but just lightly enough to avoid waking him up. Phil wants to make this moment last as long as possible, to savour having Clint exactly where he’s wanted him. The heat radiating from Clint’s side of the bed is lovely and he knows that he’s fixating a bit on the idea of that heat, the warmth of Clint, but his bed has been so empty and so cold for so long that he’s sure he can probably be excused. Lying in bed wrapped up with his lover while the world spins round them on an ordinary weekday afternoon, it feels like the very height of decadent luxury and he _loves_ it.

Phil relaxes, breathes easy and just…looks, taking in the details, allowing himself to admire up close what he’s spent too long pretending not to see. The fine curve of Clint’s shoulder. The long lie of his legs, sheets concealing the leanness of his strong thighs and calves, the muscles so languid now in sleep. The way the sunlight filtering through the blinds burnishes the tips of his mussed-up hair. His surprisingly thick eyelashes. His hands, strong fingered and square-nailed, covered with calluses but still so elegant-looking as they curl into the pillow. The curve of his lips lifted in a slight, sleepy smile. The thin silver line behind his ear, a scar acquired long ago at the hand of a man who didn’t realise Phil was behind him and didn’t have long to regret his oversight. The sight of Clint is a visual feast and a diary all at once. The way his hip swells hot and smooth under Phil’s palm, the way his ass snugs back into Phil’s hi….oh. Phil realises with no real surprise that all this admiring of Clint’s body has started to make his own body react and take a slow but distinct interest. Carefully he begins eases his hips back because that might not be exactly the way Clint wants to wake up on their first real morning together but stops when Clint’s mouth ticks up even further into a warm smirk,

“Y’ know,” he says, voice soft and sleep-rough, “I c’n feel you looking.”

Phil smiles and kisses his shoulder. “Sorry sweetheart. Didn’t mean to wake you. I’m just happy you’re still here.”

Clint chuckles, “Where else would I be? Thought you said I never had to leave this bed again.”

“You don’t. Not unless you want to. Not for me.”

“That’s good.” Clint twists his torso so that he’s facing a little more Phil’s way, rolling his body against Phil’s as he captures his lips for a kiss. The move shifts his hips, pushing his ass more firmly into the curve of Phil and Phil groans quietly into Clint’s mouth as the pressure begins a ripple of pleasure that rushes goosebumps across his skin, makes his cock twitch and start to fill in earnest. Clint just chuckles again and wriggles slowly once more, letting out a low noise of appreciation. 

“Mmmmmm. Looks like you’re not the only one happy I’m still here.”

Heat flushes through Phil and he smiles against Clint’s cheek. “Um...sorry?”

He feels Clint’s grin, “No you’re not. And neither am I.”

The next few minutes are filled entirely with kisses that let Phil know exactly how ‘not sorry’ Clint is. They’re slow and lazy kisses, morning kisses for all that it’s somewhere in the afternoon, kisses of a kind they’ve never quite shared before and Phil legitimately could melt down into Clint’s body and stay there forever, destroyed by the sweetness. At the same time all the newness is offset by an aching familiarity – Clint knows exactly how capturing Phil’s tongue and sucking on it will make him whine and Phil in his turn isn’t above licking behind Clint’s teeth until he squirms, his feet kicking against the sheets. It’s a very heady combination, the tested and the teasing, old skills made fresh by new feelings - heartfelt, incredible. 

Phil pulls away just as sensual starts to tip further into sexual, slow into speedy, just as they’re starting to rock together, because he doesn’t want things that way. Not this time, this new first time. Clint’s not the only one who has wishes he’d like to see fulfilled and Phil has spent a lot of lonely hours in the dark with his imagination fixed on Clint. Clint whines as their lips part and Phil can’t help smiling down at his frankly adorable sulky pout. 

“Morning.” he cheeks, just because he can, “I love you.”

Clint huffs, but the corner of his mouth ticks up and his eyes glitter, “Love you too.” he says, “but I kinda expected that would mean more kisses, not less.”

It’s snark, but Phil sees the need behind it and leans down and gives him one kiss more. He ends it before Clint can properly join in and, forestalling the inevitable protest, shifts quickly to breathe in Clint’s ear, “Take off your shirt?”

If it’s possible to grin with an entire body, Clint manages it. “Now that I can get on board with. If yours comes off too.” Sitting up properly he has the shirt off and thrown across the room before he’s even finished talking. Phil, in contrast, takes his time as he removes his, enjoying the view of shirtless Clint in his bed, his acres of smooth golden skin, the soft outlines of hard muscles, the silver lines of more scars like maps to Phil’s heart.

“You are so absolutely beautiful.” he tells him and Clint scrubs at the back of his neck, smiles a little smile.

“So’re you.” he says, then when Phil opens his mouth, “Shut up, you are. I always wanted to tell you, before, but didn’t want to come off clingy. Or let you hear how much I meant it. But I can say it now and you are Phil. Beautiful.” He gives Phil a very frank once over and the way Clint’s gaze lingers on him sends shivers down Phil’s spine. He can feel his skin tightening all over, goosebumps rising and nipples starting to harden just from being looked at, being seen. It’s hard not to hide. Clint, being Clint, of course sees his reaction and smirks, not smugly but knowingly, kindly and what can Phil do but trust, believe him? He risks preening just a little, bites his lip and Clint’s eyes go wide. “See?” he says and lies back again and the pull in the front of his borrowed sweats definitely shows that Phil’s not the only one affected. And then, of course Clint sees Phil looking at _that_ and smirks again, stretches a little, his turn for showing off, and _god_ is there plenty to show. “How do you want me?”

Phil’s tongue sticks in his throat, for some reason his mouth has gone completely dry. Focussing on anything other than the view is almost impossible. But wasn’t there something he wanted to do? He swallows, gathers his thoughts, his long held wishes and finally croaks, “Back where you were when I came back in?”

“Sure.” Clint quirks an eyebrow but goes anyway, back on his side, arms wrapped round the pillow, “Like this?”

Phil slides back in behind him and presses in, close but not quite touching except for one light hand on Clint’s hip, says, “Perfect.” and settles in to wait.

The scant millimetres between them thrum with such heat it’s like lying in sunshine. Phil doesn’t move. Not even slightly. He just lies there, letting his breath come in time with Clint’s and drift softly across the back of Clint’s neck, enjoying the closeness, feeling the hard pull of wanting and the thrill, the power, of denying himself, them. For now. The silence stretches out and Phil watches as the lines of Clint’s back shift minutely, moving at first from excited tension to a deeper, relaxed anticipation and still Phil lies, breathes, watches and slowly feels that heat turns to electricity, building until it’s crackling between them and making his skin tingle. Even then he doesn’t move. Clint must be feeling it too because he starts to tense again in front of Phil’s eyes, under his hand, and goosebumps begin to prickle down his arms. His breathing catches. Phil still doesn’t move.

“Phil?” Clint’s voice cracks, just a little, “what are you doing?”

“Just looking.” he replies and watches Clint shudder as the words whisper against his nape.

“Nngh. I…” Phil hears him lick his lips, “I thought you were…going to touch me?”

“Oh, I am.” he shifts his hand scant millimetres up over Clint’s waistband to graze untouched skin and Clint gasps,

_“When?”_

“Soon.” Phil promises, keeping his own voice light, dry and casual and not betraying how absolutely, desperately turned on he is right now, how much he wants, “Soon.”

Clint groans quietly but nods into the pillow and goes still again. It’s hard, watching him, having him all laid out there for the enjoying like a particularly sexy banquet but Phil’s relishing it. Much as he could rip Clint’s sweats off right now and just ravish and be ravished like they have a hundred times before that’s not what he wants for them this time. This time he wants to take it slowly, to take Clint slowly, tenderly, to make him fall apart in the way he’s never been allowed to before, to indulge him, to make him want as badly as Phil wants. To claim each and every inch of his skin in new ways for their new start. To love him. So he makes them both wait. And he doesn’t move. 

It could be seconds or hours but is probably only minutes when Clint breaks. Phil sees it coming. Between them the electricity builds and builds to a storm of contained lightning and anticipation, the tension ratchets higher and higher and Clint starts to shiver, just a little, on each breath as if he can’t quite contain his suspense at waiting to be touched. Phil’s holding himself very tight or he’d be shaking too, he’s hard enough to cut glass, to hammer nails, there’s a dark spot starting to spread on his sleep shorts just from the _wanting_ but he doesn’t and doesn’t and doesn’t until Clint finally shifts, rolls one shoulder as if he’s about to turn,

“Phil, plea…ahhhhhha, oh, oh _fuck!_ ”

Phil cuts off both the move and the plea by diving forward to lick a hot line up Clint’s throat and nip his earlobe between his teeth, worrying it while Clint squeaks and curses and quakes, whole body going tight and shuddering just from that little contact. As soon as the shudder eases Phil moves down to tongue the little concave spot behind Clint’s ear, to suck a kiss at the hinge of his jaw and Clint spasms all over again, “Fuck!”

“Probably,” Phil agrees amiably into Clint’s throat, “but not quite yet.”

Clint groans, soft and low, hands still twitching, “Phil, what are you doing?”

“Loving you.” he says, “I’m just loving you. Let me?”

Clint squeezes his eyes tight for a moment and when he slowly opens them again, his lashes are gleaming damply. He blinks, breathes in, nods.

It’s a gift, Phil knows it and he takes it with a smile and reverent hands.

He takes his time. There can hardly be a place on Clint that hasn’t already felt his touch in their years together but this time is different. This time there’s no franticness, no frenzy, no fear, just the two of them together and all the time in the world.

He makes Clint wait.

But not for everything.

Phil touches him everywhere; gently, firmly, featherlight. Fast, slow, long, short, fingers, lips, teeth, tongue, never quite the same way or the same place twice. First a slow, smooth slide of his palm down Clint’s trembling thigh, then pink marks quickly, harshly, sucked across his shoulder blade. Little kitten licks to the back of his neck, teasing the prickles of Clint’s hairline with his tongue until Clint’s gasping and then biting down and pulling the hairs in his teeth and making him cry out. Ghosting a hand down Clint’s arm, across the heat of his wrist and feeling his pulse jump then pressing his thumb hard into the centre of his palm, working the pressure point. Quick, rough tugs on Clint’s cock as it’s straining up through the sweats, abruptly stopped and followed agonisingly by dancing the lightest of fingers over its head where the fabric is already soaked. Phil lets each touch last just long enough to make Clint shake and then shifts, carefully not telegraphing his moves, making each one a surprise (as much as one can surprise Hawkeye) so Clint can’t settle, never knows what’s coming. If Phil had thought lying in bed with Clint had been luxury then he knows now that his imagination had fallen sadly short. This, this freedom, this permission to touch Clint’s body, to _play_ , to keep him boiling on the very edge of satisfaction, to keep them both there if he’s honest, this is decadence, this is hedonism. This is heaven.

And Clint _responds_ , oh god, he is so responsive it’s intoxicating. Phil feels drunk on him. Hips bucking, skin flushing, goosebumps running across his back he twists and writhes so prettily, going so still in each pause and then jumping like each fresh touch is lightning, Phil loves him so much, wants him so much. And his _noises_ , gasps, groans, the hiss of air through gritted teeth, soft little overwhelmed moans, they could tempt a saint straight to hell. Phil just wants to take him and make it good, make it great, make it last and last and last until they both fall to pieces.

Every now and then and without any warning he closes the tiny gap between them, pulls on Clint’s hip and moulds himself the full length of his back, just for a few seconds. Clint gasps each time at the sudden heat of the touch and Phil holds him hard, presses his cock against the beautiful solid curve of his ass and rocks their hips together until they’re both moaning before pulling away again. The way Clint sobs each time they part sends a hot, sharp ache rushing through him, makes his gut throb. It’s just…exquisite.

The third, fourth, maybe fifth time Phil presses against him Clint’s hand shoots up before he can move away and stops him. His fingers dig hard into Phil’s hip.

“Phil…” he pants, sounding dazed, “Phil, please…I can’t, I can’t…”

“Can’t what sweetheart?” Phil nibbles his way round Clint’s ear, strokes one hand across his chest. He grazes one hard, pink nipple and Clint whines, “Can’t what? You don’t need to do anything. All you have to do is lie and let me love you.” he keeps his hand moving, gently tickling, twisting, their hips still rocking, “If it feels good, all you need to do is lie there and _be_ good. Be a good b…” 

Oh. 

Phil stops himself, freezing because he hadn’t meant…hadn’t _known_ he was going to say that again. Because that’s a claim aside from ‘I love you’, that’s different again, even Phil, who doesn’t, hasn’t used it seriously before, knows that, but it something about having Clint like this sends the name surging up from his very soul. It feels right, feels like it fits. But how that doesn’t matter right now because he won’t do guessing with Clint anymore and they haven’t talked about it, about what it might or might not mea…

“Say it.” Clint’s soft plea cuts through Phil’s burgeoning worry, “Please Phil, say it.”

“You…” he hesitates.

Clint doesn’t. Scooping up Phil’s hand from where it’s lying still on his chest he kisses his palm, “I liked it. Last time. Before. Say it.”

Phil squeezes his eyes shut just for a second against the rush of emotion and possession that could simply pull him under if he were to let it, then takes his hand back and resumes his careful stroking. He finds Clint’s nipple again and rubs his thumb in slow circles over it until Clint’s making that high, pained noise again then leans close to his ear,

“If it feels good, all you need to do is lie there and be good, Clint. Be a good boy.”

“Oh.” Clint’s hips buck hard and he shudders the length of his body, feet kicking against the sheets, “oh, _god_.”

Lightning prickles again over each inch of Phil’s skin and he pulls Clint even closer, “You do like that, don’t you?”

Clint nods, his hand still back and clenched on Phil’s hip, “Don’t know if I like all the things that might go with it, but I like,” he pinks, “I like…” 

It all adds up suddenly, Clint’s love of targets, the way he’s always hung around Phil’s office after missions, the way he never misses a debrief, the way he reached for Phil’s hand that last time…Christ. Another thing he missed. “You like to know that you’re good.” Phil licks around Clint’s ear as he nods, breathless, and it’s like he’s passed Phil a piece of himself to take care of. Phil’s voice threatens to break as he says, “and you _are_ Clint, you’re so, so good. Jesus, look at you, what you’re letting me do to you, do you know how _long_ I’ve wanted to have you like this? You’re amazing and you’re so good, you’re _such a good boy_.”

Clint moans, “Not…”

“Don’t argue with me on this.” Phil pauses in peppering kisses across Clint’s shoulder to bite down in the crook of his neck, emphasising his words, “You are a good boy. So good.”

Clint struggles against his grip, shaking his head, “Not…ahhh, not ‘a’.”

Not ‘a’? Wha… Phil’s thoughts trails off as the realisation hits him and whites out his mind for a split second. He’s suddenly the one shuddering. Leaning up over Clint he laps at his neck, laving his tongue over the red bite mark, “My good boy,” he says, his world bending right round this new truth, “you’re _my_ good boy.”

He doesn’t deserve it, he surely can’t, but Clint honest to god whimpers and turns his soft mouth up for a kiss so there’s no time to do anything but take what he’s offered and try to earn it. It’s a long kiss, deep and twisting, with teeth and tongues and the sweetest little noises coming from…actually he’s not sure who. It doesn’t matter. It’s all need and want, release and possession and they’re swept up in sweetness together. Gradually however, the heat - temporarily somehow neglected – creeps back into it, colours it at the edges. Phil can feel it in the way Clint’s hand tightens, the heave of his chest and how he’s rocking, pushing back into him. Phil nibbles at the plushness of his bottom lip, tweaks at one peaked nipple and Clint groans deep and loose and finally pulls away from Phil’s mouth, panting,

“Phil…babe…Phil, you gotta…please, you gotta..”

Phil steals a kiss from the corner of his swollen lips, “What sweetheart?”

“You gotta _touch me_.”

He smirks, “I’ve been touching you.”

Clint, though he’s pink cheeked and wild-eyed, still manages to scowl at him and it’s wonderful, “Then touch me _more_.”

The temper turns Phil’s heart over, it’s more evidence that as much as everything has changed between them since yesterday nothing has really changed at all, and that and the need boiling behind it hits Phil hard. He swallows back a groan because hearing Clint like this, having him like this, so open, so exactly himself but _more_ , he might die. He might eat Clint alive. It’s so undeniably, unbelievably hot. He licks his lips, blood pounding, “So good. Asking for what you need. Anything. Anything for you.” he says, and he _means_ it. He covers the hand still clenched on his hip and unpicks Clint’s grip finger by finger, “Alright sweetheart, let go of me, just for a minute.”

Clint does and Phil takes his hand and wraps it back round the pillow then inches back and kisses Clint’s neck again, starting at his hairline so see if it will still make Clint shiver. It does, so he does it a second time; at the same time he runs his hand over Clint’s shoulder and down his side, palm soothing over the lovely shapes of those heavy archery muscles. When he reaches Clint’s waistband he simply says, “Up.” and the muscles bunch beautifully as Clint lifts his hips, allowing Phil work the sweats down even as he keeps licking twisting patterns into Clint’s skin. There’s a wet slap as Clint’s cock springs free and hits against his belly and Phil’s own jolts, hard, when Clint hisses through his teeth, “ _Jesus_ , Phil…please…”

“Shhhh,” Phil kisses his way down Clint’s spine as he shuffles himself down the bed, one hand pushing Clint’s sweats further down until Clint’s able to wiggle his feet free and kick them away, “I’m coming.” Phil wriggles his way even further until he’s able to sink his teeth into the meat of Clint’s delectable ass and worry at it just hard enough to leave shallow dents. 

His teeth marks, on Clint’s ass. 

Fuck. He’s going to loose his mind. His whole body feels tight, hot, throbbing and almost feral with desire.

Clint hisses again and Phil growls in the back of his throat, only half playing, and keeps biting, working his way across one cheek and the other, then back to the centre where he laps his tongue teasingly against Clint’s tailbone. Leaning his weight on one arm he uses the other to nudge at Clint’s top knee, pushes his trembling thigh up and out into a right angle so that he leans a little and his hips tilt toward the mattress, opening him up. The air around them rattles with a deep, wanton groan, a low, filthy noise that Phil doesn’t at first realise has come from his own mouth, because… _jesus_. He pushes his hand into his own sweats, gives his neglected cock a long slow pull, and then another and another because the contact feels like water in the desert and because _Christ_ who wouldn’t with Clint just _there_ and looking like _that_ , so beautiful and so _good?_ Phil groans and strokes again, twisting his hand up and round the head, slick streaking across his palm. Clint must feel the movement because he curses, 

“fuck, _please_ Phil…”

and pushes his hips forward, searching for friction and Phil is not having that, he has plans, “Shhhhhh,” he says again. One last squeeze and he leans forward with another “shhhhh,” breathing the sound across Clint’s ass, between his cheeks. He’s almost touching when Clint jerks hard,

“Oh, oh shit Phil, you gonna…?”

Phil stops. “No?” he asks, the question genuine because it’s one thing they’ve never actually done, much as he wants to and maybe Clint doesn’t...but Clint’s shaking his head,

“No! I mean…not…not _no_ , just… _fuck._ ”

Phil grins and blows softly, his breath ghosting over tight furls of exposed skin, “Shall I take that as yes?”

Clint shudders, hitches his knee up further, “Yes.”

“Good.” Phil grins, “Good boy. Stay there then.”

Before Clint has time to respond Phil just dives, dives down and licks a broad, hot stripe from Clint’s balls to his tailbone. Clint’s hips kick forward and he grunts like he’s been punched and the sound goes straight to Phil’s cock. The next stripe he licks vibrates with his moan but Clint does not seem to mind. At all. In fact he’s gasping, “Oh shit…uhhhhnn…holy shit,” and pushing back onto Phil’s tongue where Phil’s moving it over his hole, teasing at the puckered muscle and Phil might just explode but oh god, he’d die happy. Everything is the feel of Clint, the heat, the taste of him and the need, the deep, wracking, near desperation to get more and more and just _more_. He swirls the tip of his tongue around Clint’s hole – teasing, laving, loving it with long licks and tiny flicks – then seals his lips over it and sucks all the while holding Clint open with one hand on the back of his thigh while he repeats the move, feeling the muscle jump as Clint squirms, as he cries out,

“oh…ohhhh godddddd…oh jesus Phil that’s, that’s so….ah! ohhh….”

Phil’s whole body is shaking with tension and his jaw aches but it’s good, it’s so very good that he keeps going, working against Clint until he feels the muscle start to give. When it does, when Clint starts to loosen to his assault, Phil makes his tongue into a hard point and _pushes_ at his hole until he breaches it and fuck. He’s in Clint, tasting him on the inside and Clint’s all heat and silk, writhing and keening into his pillow and Phil has to have even more of him. He shifts and wriggles up onto his knees until he can bring both hands to spread Clint’s ass even further, to rub his fingers round his rim where it’s slick with his own spit, to hook his fingertips on the edge, to gently, slowly pull them apart and then, finally, to push his tongue deep into the stretch. Clint howls. Even though his face is buried deep in the pillow Phil hears him shriek as he licks into him, feels his body tremble like an earthquake. Phil presses deeper, rubbing and stretching and curling his tongue and _it still isn’t enough_.

Carefully, he lets go and pulls away, rests his forehead at the base of Clint’s spine while he pants for breath, reaching his own limits. The pillow rustles as Clint lifts his head, his voice is rough, “Phil? Y’okay?”

Phil nods against Clint’s back and snakes his hand over his hip, curls his fist around Clint’s cock. It’s impossibly hard yet soft, hot in his hand and he strokes it as he talks, “I need to be in you sweetheart. Clint. God love, you’re so good, you have no idea how much I… I need to be inside you,” he sounds shattered in his own ears, “is that alright?”

Clint quakes, blurts, “fuck yes,” faster than lightning and Phil chuckles, fondness and lust in equal measure. 

He squirms his way back up Clint’s body, stretching out behind him again and gives his straining cock another firm stroke. Clint’s head falls back on his shoulder and Phil hums another delighted laugh, kissing his jaw line, because how sweet is Clint, how lovely, his hand still moving, still twisting up and down his length. Eventually, slowly, Phil stops moving, uncurls his fingers and lifts his hand. Clint whines but when Phil whispers in his ear, “Nightstand. You’re closest,” he lurches forwards and rips open the drawer. While Clint rummages without looking Phil takes the chance to push off his own sleep pants and grind up against Clint’s ass. It’s like pressing against the sun. Clint swears. Finally, couple more seconds of fumbling and a tube of lube comes sailing through the air, tossed backwards to land exactly in the space behind Phil’s own butt. _Hawkeye_. Phil scoops it up and waits but the packet he’s expecting doesn’t appear, 

“And the rest.”

“Don’t need it.” Clint pushes the drawer closed, and looks over his shoulder to give Phil a wry smile, “Phil, babe, come on. There’s been no-one but you. I haven’t slept with anyone but you in years.”

It’s another gift and Phil has to, just has to grab him and kiss him for it. “Me neither,” he gasps against Clint’s lips, “Me neither.” And he hasn’t. Never needed to. Never wanted to. Never even fucking _thought_ about it. Yet another thing they missed about each other and how the fuck? _Idiots_.

“Don’t,” Clint says, because of course he can tell, “We’re here now. Don’t. I need you.” He throws one arm back and clings to Phil, kisses him like he intends to keep him and he can. Oh god he _can_. Must.

Still kissing, unable to stop kissing, Phil manages to pop the cap of the lube and squeeze some onto his fingers – there would be no point in having all these super-spy dexterity skills if he didn’t use them – and reaches down again. Clint’s still wet, soft, open, not much but enough that one slick finger slides in easily down to the second knuckle, quickly followed by a second, simple as breathing. A few a few slow, scissoring stretches that have Clint mewling and he’s opening up so sweetly that it takes Phil’s breath away, chokes him with want. He starts to ask if Clint feels ready but Clint, gorgeous, good, godlike Clint, beats him to it, breathing, “Now. Please Phil. Now.” like a benediction that carries off all Phil’s sins.

Phil nods, kisses him just one more time, for luck, for love, then finds the tube again and slicks himself, his body screaming at the contact, the promise of what comes next. One hand slides under Clint’s neck to wrap around his chest and the other leaves shining lines on Clint’s skin as Phil pulls himself closer to draw Clint’s knee back and lift it up over his own leg so that he can snug in, line himself up and push slowly home. A squeeze, a pinch, one long, easy, glorious slide and Clint has him to the root, sunk deep, pressed as close as it’s possible to be and for a moment, everything stops. It’s as if the world’s gone silent, even the noise inside his head goes to nothing against the weight of Clint in his arms, the hot tight clench of him, their twinned breath. He can feel his own heart beating inside Clint’s body, even a Clint’s pulse flutters under his hand. For a moment Phil honestly loses track of where he ends and Clint begins, it’s all just…them.

Then Clint shifts, sighs and rolls his body against Phil’s, a plea, and the moment heats, changes, now Phil needs to move. He starts slow, shallow, gentle but Clint’s body makes space for him and the joy, the absolute joy of it is that no matter how new some of this feels the rest is as familiar as tying his shoes and he knows exactly what Clint wants, what that roll of his hips is asking for and how to give it to him. Finding the right spot, that magic bundle of nerves deep inside takes a second or two but he circles his hips, searching and soon Clint tenses, hisses, “ _Yesss_ , there, fuck that’s _good_ , oh Phil, there, …” , throws his arm back around Phil’s waist and drags him even closer, “… _right_ there…”, squeezes down so tight around Phil that he sees stars. He’s been hard for what feels like his lifetime but that scorching clench pulls another rush of need through him and he stiffens even further, groaning in time with Clint as he drives into him and against that spot again and again and again, pleasure clawing at him with every inch, every slick slide. His breath comes hard as he rocks and Clint’s chest is heaving but Phil paws at his jaw anyway, pulls him back for a kiss that makes Clint’s back arch like his bow and presses him even harder down onto Phil.

Clint screams into his mouth and Phil kisses him round it, through it, messy, inelegant and the hottest fucking thing that has ever happened. “I love you,” Phil tells him, because he can and he pulls at Clint’s hip, hauling him back onto his cock, pushing into him and battering at that sweet spot over and over and over, “I love you. You feel so good, you feel amazing, you’re so good…”

At Phil’s back Clint’s reaching hand starts to twitch and scrabble and this is it then, he’s close and Phil’s not surprised, he’s had him on the edge for so long. He bites into Clint’s shoulder and then kisses over the mark, making Clint moan, never breaking stride. “That’s it.” he says, “That’s right.” Letting go of Clint’s hip he grips Clint’s cock again, making his fist a source of firm friction. Clint cries out and jerks forward and then back as if he’s not sure which point of pleasure his body wants to chase and he lets out a sob, “It’s alright,” Phil tells him, “it’s alright. I’m here. Take what you need.” 

“Tell. Me.” Clint gasps, rocking hard back and forth, through Phil’s fist, onto his cock, so close now, so close to breaking, “Phil. _Tell me._ ”

Phil’s heart might burst. He leans into it, licking at Clint’s neck again, tasting the salt on his skin. “You’re my good boy.” he pants and Clint sobs again, “You’re so good. You’re my good boy and I want you to come for me. Come for me Clint. Come on. _Come_ for me. _Cover_ me. Come. For. Me.” 

On the last three words he slams into Clint hard as he can, an obscene, divine punctuation, and Clint’s mouth opens in a silent cry as his body goes tight, his back bows even further and he spills all over his beautiful stomach and Phil’s hand and god knows where else. Phil fucks him through it and then past it, gentler but unrelenting because Clint feels so absolutely, all-consumingly amazing, the way he shakes around him and Phil’s almost there himself, almost, almost… above him Clint heaves in a shuddering breath, turns his head to look at Phil, his eyes are wet and Phil could dive into that blue and fall forever. 

“Take me,” he begs, and it is begging and god that’s… “Take me. Fill me. Fuck me Phil, I’m yours.” He crushes his mouth down onto Phil’s, steals Phil’s reply and replaces it with his tongue. Phil fucks into him faster and faster, so close, so, so close and Clint squeezes down one last time, ripples his muscles around Phil and that’s it, Phil’s lost, he’s done, he’s gone, falling into that blue after all. Clint kisses him as he comes and steals those cries as well.

The shudders take a long, long time to subside but when they do Phil finds himself smiling against Clint’s lips. His whole body tingles and he doesn’t think he’s ever, ever felt this good before. Or he would think that, if he could think yet. He can’t. Not about anything that isn’t Clint anyway. Gently they shift until they’re back on their sides, more or less how they started. Hotter, wetter, a whole lot messier, but neither of them cares about that. They’re already cuddling, Phil realises, and for once he doesn’t have to let go. No, scratch that, not for once. For ever. He never has to let go again. Clint’s really his now, just like he’s really Clint’s. The thought fills Phil with such unadulterated joy that he can’t contain it. Clint doesn’t ask him why he’s laughing, his happiness explains itself.

>>===>>

It’s later, when they’ve got some of their breath back, that Phil has a thought. He’s sitting up against the headboard with Clint lying pillowed against his chest so he strokes his cheek, tugs his attention away from the chest-hair he’s currently fascinated with.

“Clint?”

He breaks off his idle twirling, “Mmm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Clint says craning his neck to look at Phil, “fire away.”

“Your story,” he pauses, “I’m not…upset about it or anything, just…why?”

Clint sighs and Phil’s pretty certain that he suddenly doubles in weight, sagging into his chest. It takes a long time but Phil can wait for this too. Eventually, Clint huffs and shrugs. “God. Because it was in my head. And it was driving me nuts. Not always, I mean, I was crazy about you for the longest time and just didn’t, couldn’t….but I managed, I did. Until after Loki. I thought I’d lost you and it was so, so fucking awful. Honestly. When you came back I was so insanely happy to just have you home again and you seemed happy too but didn’t take long to see something was different, you were different and I thought…” he rubs his face on Phil’s chest, scruffing into his hair and tries to laugh but it comes out twisted, “I mean, I know what was different _now_ , but, fuck, _then_.” 

He shivers, a release of residual sadness and Phil pulls him a little tighter, 

“ _Then_ , I thought I was losing again you somehow and had no fucking idea what to do about it. And then Tony found _Castigators_ and suddenly it was everywhere, the show, those dumb characters, that fucking 'ship' . Everywhere. Like it was following me about somehow and I know I said I didn’t see it but it was so obvious what they were doing. It was like watching _me_. Or the me I was trying not to be not to be because I thought you didn’t want him. The story we couldn’t have, you know? The one I really wanted.” 

Phil nods, the memory of his own realisation, his mortification that morning swimming up unbidden. He absolutely knows. 

“And I let Tony show me the fanfiction because I didn’t know how not to and I read a few and there were _so many_ ways people wrote that they – we – got together in the stories and they were all just…wrong. Because I knew exactly how that story _should_ go, didn’t I? After Morocco. That night. How it should have happened between us, what I should have said or done…don’t think there’s been many nights between then and now when I haven’t thought about it.”

“I’m so sorry.” Phil says it softly and Clint squeezes him, a one-armed hug.

“Not just your fault babe, remember? I’ve been an idiot too. We said.”

Phil smiles. “Idiots united then.”

“Exactly.” Clint leans and kisses Phil’s chest then grimaces.

Phil smirks, “That’s all you.”

Clint snorts a laugh, “It’s your fault it went that far and you know it.” Then his face drops back a little, “Anyway. Like I said, the story was in my head, going round and round and I thought maybe…if I wrote it, just let the words out, maybe it would go away and we could get back to normal. So I did. And it helped, a bit. I just needed them to get out of my head, all the things I wanted to say, all those things that I thought were never gonna happen… I never meant for anyone else to see but then there you were and I had you but I didn’t have you and I wanted you so bad and it still hurt.”

He stops and Phil strokes his cheek again, “You don’t have to.”

Clint shakes his head, “Nah, it’s fine, I’m fine, just…” taking a breath he visibly braces himself. “Anyway. Uno night - remember Uno night?- I kinda lost it. You’d been there so close and lovely and I couldn’t face another movie’s-worth of just sitting next to you on that damn chair – I mean, what is with that chair? Are the rest of them allergic to it or something? – so I went home and I had a drink or three and got a bit maudlin. And next thing I know I’m holding a bottle in one hand and I’m logged on to the Archive with the other, posting the story. I guess I just wanted someone to tell me I wasn’t crazy. That the things I imagined could be possible.”

Phil’s heart breaks, just a bit, for all the pointless loneliness they’ve both been through, “And then you ended up in my room anyway.”

“I did,” Clint frowns. “Because I was lost and lonely and a bit tipsy and so damn sad and I just wanted you so much.”

“And it was right, good, it made it feel better for a while, and then worse again. Didn’t it.”

“Yeah. Same for you I guess. Sorry.”

By the end of the speech his voice has gone all cracked and Phil hates it. He hates that they ever put each other through this and he’ll spend forever making it right if he has to, “I’m not.” 

“No?” Clint scoffs, disbelieving so Phil tilts his chin up.

“Not now,” he murmurs, leaning down close enough to kiss, “because you weren’t crazy. And if you’d not posted it Natasha might never have found it and without that kick, I don’t know if I’d ever have dared…if we’d ever….ever…” the threat of a Clint-less future looms up suddenly large and cold and so horrifically empty that the bottom drops out of his stomach and the kiss dies before it’s even delivered. 

Clint is obviously having the same thought and he shivers, “fuck.” 

It sounds so sad and small that Phil wipes quickly at his eyes and dredges up the best smile he can manage. It’s crooked, but there and he offers it out to Clint, “Working on it sweetheart, right? We’re working on it.”

Clint squeezes him, turns to kiss his arm, then looks up “Absolutely babe. Every day. Promise.”

Phil tightens his arm too and they hold each other for a good long time, foreheads touching, allowing each other to be safe, to see the old hurts and let them go. Slowly, they sink into it, breath slowing, relaxing together into their new now. It’s warm, and solid and Phil breathes it in. He believes in it. In them. He really, honestly does. 

The heavy mood starts to dissipate in the face of that kind of embrace, that growing trust and eventually the hug smoothes out, less holding each other because they need to and more because they want to. So, when Phil has another thought, he nudges Clint and gives him a look from under his eyelashes, hoping that it comes off as flirt and not derangement, “So …do you think you’ll write any more?”

It must, because Clint, who has always been able to read his unspoken cues when he’s dared to give them, smiles, no, _twinkles_ , and now Phil does close the gap and kiss him because he just has to. It’s a lovely kiss, full of post-coital warmth edging back into pre-coital heat and yes, that’s absolutely worth exploring. Clint’s still smiling when they break apart and it has definite sparkle at the edges now. Phil could spend all day tasting that sparkle but Clint goes to answer the question,

“No…” he gives Phil a slow, deliberate once over shouldn’t really be sexy, given his curled up position and the mess they’re already in but Phil’s heart thrills in his chest anyway and he shudders. Clint’s smile quirks up at one corner, “No. Somehow, I really don’t think I’ll need to.”

It’s sweet, as declarations go, but there’s heat in that smirk and sets Phil’s pulse bumping. Trying not to be outdone he raises an eyebrow, “Oh. That’s almost a shame. I’m sure you could have come up with some other good ideas.”

Laughing and still smirking Clint pushes himself up, rolls and lifts until he’s straddling Phil, sitting firmly in his lap, flat palms hot against his chest. “Oh, I still have the ideas babe,” he says as he circles his hips and _fuck_ but that low, smoky voice should be illegal, “These ones just have a much higher rating. And I’ve got much better plans for…” he runs one finger appraisingly across Phil’s collar bone, “… working them out. For instance, I definitely have some thoughts about my mouth and your skin that I could do with running by you… ”

Phil swallows hard, he is so in love with this man, “Oh,” he murmurs as Clint’s hand slides round the back of his neck and he allows himself to be drawn up into the waiting kiss, “I’m very sure I can help with that.”

>>===>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to follow, but let me know what you thought of this first? x


	10. Chapter 10

>>===>>

**Epilogue**

“I need to eat.” Clint announces later from somewhere in the wrecked bed, “I swear, my gut thinks my throat’s been cut. D’ya have food in babe?”

Phil takes stock. They’re sweaty (-er), sticky (-er), poorer by at least another half-tube of lube, richer in a million other ways and yes, food sounds like a very sensible idea. The aches in his muscles and his ass are pleasant reminders, the one in his stomach not so much.

“I have protein bars.”

“No you don’t,” Clint rolls over to smirk at Phil, “we got through those after the second time, remember? Just before you got my…”

“I remember.” Phil cuts him off, because there’s only so much even his very willing body can take before it surely must collapse in on itself in a puddle of exhausted lust, “So no, sweetheart, sorry. No food. I’ve not exactly been living here recently.”

“Urgh. Fine.” Clint untangles himself from the blankets and works his way to sitting up, “I guess we’re heading to the big kitchen then. Nat said something about Bruce cooking and he always makes enough to feed the Hulk. There’s bound to be enough left for us.”

“Us?” Phil tries very hard not to squeak the word, “We’re going together?”

“Well, not right away maybe.” Clint frowns, and the Phil feels his breath catch, the blood drain from his head, “I mean, I need to go get some actual clothes because the sweats you lent me are wrecked, but if you head down and find the others I’ll meet you there.” He turns and looks at Phil who tries his best to look nonchalant, but what use is that when you’re dating Hawkeye? Absolutely none. “Babe, you thought I didn’t want to tell them?”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.” Clint shakes his head fondly, “Idiot.”

Phil knows he’s blushing but powers through, “I’m your idiot.”

Clint snorts and leans down for a kiss, “Yes you are, and I can’t wait until everyone knows it. But if you’re my idiot, what does that make me? Yours?”

“No,” Phil, not above being underhand, brushes his lips against Clint’s, then moves up to graze his ear, “You’re my good boy.”

“Uhhhh,” Clint groans with a tiny shudder, “Bastard. That won’t work every single time you know.”

“Just most of them?” Phil arches a brow and Clint half laughs, half groans,

“Yes, just most of them. Now for god’s sake, stop being so fucking sexy and please take me for food before I start eating myself?”

Standing, Phil pulls him towards the shower, “For you? Anything.” 

>>===>>

Phil arrives at the communal floor twenty minutes later and alone, Clint having gone back to his own floor to grab himself some clothes. In a towel. Just a towel. Because, apparently Phil, ‘isn’t the only one who can privacy mode the elevator’. Phil smiles at the memory, a sappy and daft smile, true, but nobody but JARVIS can see it.

The floor smells divine, one of Bruce’s curry nights then, and the television is playing quietly in the lounge. Phil almost takes a moment before he goes in, to steel himself, but what for? There’s no threat in there, he reassures himself, just his friends. He might not have seen them since the day he went to deal with Clint’s outburst but after all the soul-searching and serious conversations he’s had to have in the last twenty-four hours Phil finds he doesn’t have it in him to wonder what they might think about that, or his new relationship status. Thought there’s nothing really to worry about. He knows exactly what he wants. Curry. And to be there with Clint. Curry first though.

When he actually gets in to the lounge Phil is largely unsurprised to find that the whole team is assembled and the loveseat is once again the only free chair. Of course. It’s pretty wonderful how that doesn’t fill him with the panic it once did, now there’s just the promise of possibilities. Phil makes a beeline for the coffee table in the centre of the room where the food’s laid out on a warming plate, scoops two generous bowls of what looks like Bruce’s magnificent chicken bhuna, snags a couple of poppadoms and sets it all down on the sidetable by the loveseat before sitting down himself. Natasha, in the armchair, looks up from her reading as he settles himself against the arm with his feet out across the seat, and arches a brow in a silent question. Meeting her eyes he gives her a nod and smile, tiny but containing multitudes of joy and gratitude and she smiles back approvingly before returning to her StarkPad. It’s as much as they need, in public at least. In private, he and Clint have already decided, Nat will be receiving hugs and a large delivery of that chocolate marzipan she likes. And then many more hugs.

Out of the others, Steve idly sketching, Thor watching some old animated musical, Tony and Bruce with heads bent over some specs, no-one speaks. They all went pointedly ‘casually’ quiet when he walked in and Phil can practically feel them all pretending that his reappearance is nothing out of the ordinary, each of them waiting for one of the others to brave the silence first. Phil scoops a mouthful of bhuna while he waits for them to decide who it’s going to be. He has no idea how exactly he’s going to answer any questions they ask but the news is beating behind his teeth and he can’t wait to let it out. 

The tomatoes burst sweet on his tongue, tasting like anticipation, delicious. 

Almost predictably, it’s Steve who breaks first. “Phil,” he says, and it’s almost his Captain America voice, full of quiet concern, “we haven’t seen you in a while. Are you alright?”

Phil swallows the curry and goes to reply but,

“He’s good.” Clint appears from the kitchen with beers in hand and beats him to it. Vaulting the back of the loveseat he bounces down happily in the space between Phil’s hastily spread legs says, “In fact, he’s great, aren’t you babe?” and kisses him swiftly but warmly. As the team watch, largely opened mouthed. Phil returns the kiss, they swap beer for bowl until both have one of each and Clint snuggles back against Phil’s chest to eat. Phil almost combusts with love and pride and smug elation when, ever the showman, Clint lifts his fork and pauses dramatically to address their wide-eyed audience, “What?” he grins, “You didn’t see this coming?”

The room erupts.

Thor booms with laughter and loudly praises their ‘fine choice of match’ between ‘blooded warriors’, Steve offers surprised handshakes and backslaps that are slightly awkward but endearingly genuine and Nat chuckles softly from the armchair when Clint blows her a kiss while Bruce claps his hands together, rumbling, “That’s great, I’m happy for you both, that’s so great,” with one of his soft grins.

Tony, however, does nothing until the cacophony dies down a little and everyone’s settling back with a drink and gentle questions, which is when he lifts his eyes to the ceiling and demands, “JARVIS? Activate ‘Thank Fuck For That’ protocol.”

Balloons. 

Suddenly there are so many balloons. Hatches in the ceiling and walls and floor fly open and all at once the lounge is covered in balloons, bright purple, heart shaped balloons, then there’s a loud pop and the air fills up with confetti and bizarrely as if that wasn’t enough, hidden speakers start belting out a techno-dance remix of the Cliff Richard classic ‘Congratulations’. There’s a few seconds of shock where Phil blinks stupidly at the confetti fluttering past his nose, manages to grab a balloon to see that they’re all emblazoned ‘Phlint’ in fancy script and he honestly blanks because for god’s sake, has Tony given them a ship name? Of all the…what’s the right reaction to have in this situation? Then in front of him Clint chokes, snorts beer out of his nose and collapses into full-body, helpless laughter, giggling with such abandon that Phil has very little choice but to join him. Tony’s grinning at them both and the rest of the team are laughing now too and Phil realises that this the first time he’s ever been in front of these people, his friends, his team and been able to show them his whole self without holding back, without guarding his feelings and secrets - though the balloons and lack of surprise on anyone’s part should perhaps tell him exactly how good he was at guarding that particular secret – and it’s a heady, electrifying feeling that needs celebrating so he pulls Clint back into a sort of dip and kisses him quite thoroughly, ignoring the hearty wolfwhistle they will both later be vaguely surprised to find out came from Steve. 

“Jeez Phil,” Clint’s eyes are sparkling when they break apart, “haven’t you had enough yet?”

“Never.” Phil tells him, “Never ever.”

“Boys,” Natasha interrupts with a smile, “adorable as you are, Bruce’s curry is getting cold.”

It is and Phil’s stomach growls to remind him why that would be a tragedy so he puts down his man – not too far – and picks up his bowl, toasting the chef with a nod in Bruce’s direction. He’s managed to fish out the worst of the confetti that has drifted into it and is finally about to eat when there’s one further interruption, this time in the form of JARVIS.

“Sir,” he addresses Tony, “As per the protocol I have informed Miss Potts that she may call the studio and let them know that ‘their Christmas bonuses are going to be scarily impressive this year’ and that ‘they can make it canon in season three’. 

Once again, there’s a sudden silence and Phil has a terrible, sneaking suspicion.

“JARVIS,” he asks, “which studio exactly is Pepper going to call?”

“Wonder Studios, in the UK.” 

“And they make….?”

“I believe, Agent Coulson,” JARVIS answers promptly, “that they are most famous for their animated offering, _Castigators_.”

Phil looks to Tony, whose grin goes sheepish, “I may have had a _little_ creative input, just the tiniest tweak here and there, nothing major, most of it was already there, I swear…”

“For what reason?”

Tony gestures open handed at them and then himself, shrugs bright and unapologetic, “Genius, billionaire, playboy, _philanthropist._ ” he says, as if that’s an answer. Which, for Tony, it probably is. 

Phil stares Tony down for a couple of seconds but, fuck it. He can’t bring himself to anger, so he just raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. “ _Stark_.” he reprimands gently and Tony grins.

The room gets loud again with Steve suggesting that Tony needs to look up the definition of philanthropist on Phil and Clint’s behalf, Tony insisting that it wasn’t all his idea, Bruce attempting to smooth things over, Natasha suspiciously quiet, Thor, a true fanboy, asking Tony if he might be able to secure him a part in season three and in the middle of it Clint is an island of silence. Phil tugs him back into his arms and hugs him.

“You alright?”

Clint shrugs, “Did he…did Tony set us up? With the show? And everything?”

“I think so. Maybe a bit, maybe not just Tony. Let’s just say that perhaps the story that gave us the kick maybe got a kick of its own. To some extent.”

“’To some extent’ my ass. I’ll give _him_ a kick.” Clint growls and Phil laughs softly at the belligerence in his voice. Clint blinks at him, “You don’t mind?”

Looking down at Clint’s gorgeous face, his tiny endearing frown Phil feels such a swell of love in him that there’s barely any room for anything else, and honestly, he doesn’t want there to be, not today, right now love is all he’s interested in, “Not really,” he answers simply, “I’ve lived through worse than the meddling of well-meaning friends, and, well. Look where it got us. If Tony or Nat or even Bruce gave us a poke in this direction it doesn’t make a scrap difference to any of what I said to you or how I feel.”

The tension seeps out of Clint, “Not for me either. And the balloons are pretty awesome.” he agrees, then glances at Tony, “We’re going to forgive and forget all the _Castigators_ insanity then? Ellen? The clothing? The _fanart?_ ” 

Phil cocks his head, “Forgive, of course. But forget….? Well. Let’s just say that there are some very interesting security tapes from Tony’s testing lab that I can persuade JARVIS to find, and now that we know that the studio is open to creative input…”

Understanding dawn on Clint’s face and he grins, “You’re an evil man. Clever and evil and I love you very, very much.”

Across the room the almost-argument is starting to wind down and run out of steam, perhaps because the ‘victims’ are too busy canoodling to actually get involved, and both Tony and Steve offer an apologetic wave as they head back to their chairs. Tony picks back up the spec he was working on when Phil came in and the film must have hit a favourite musical number of Thor’s because he’s turning up the sound to sing along, encouraging Bruce to join him. Natasha, back in her armchair and reading again, hums softly. 

For the first time in a long time Phil feels whole. Solid, secure, hiding nothing from anyone. He has his place, his team and now Clint. Clint, in all the ways he had him before but with all this incredible, extraordinary, extra too. The words are there as they always have been, always are, burning in his throat, a pure and absolute truth and now he lets them lose again because he wants to, because he has to and because he _can_ , “Love you too sweetheart.” Happier than he’s ever been, than he ever hoped to be, “Love you.” he repeats, feeling the rightness of it, the way it makes everything click into place. Theirs has been a twisted and painful story so far and there's a good chance it will throw more obstacles at them one day but right now it feels like things are going to work out. How can they not, now that the two of them are firmly on the same page? Phil smiles, as around them the team relaxes and Clint snuggles down into his lap, his back to Phil’s chest, lounging up against him. He passes Clint his food and drops a kiss onto his hair. Instead of the ending he worried about, they've found this new beginning.

Phil can’t wait for their next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. So much love to all of you for reading and commenting and hitting the kudos button, you kept me going when this wanted to stop. xxx
> 
> Got thoughts? I'm shamelessly begging to hear them :)


End file.
